


the vanishing point

by chellethewriter



Series: the catradora brain rot collection [1]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, But also, Canon Compliant, Catra POV, Catra needs therapy, Character Study, Deleted Scenes, Domestic Fluff, Enemy Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lesbians Laying in Bed, Lesbians in Space, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Third Person Limited, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sickfic, Torture, god what else, i really tried to do everything, it's all about the juxtaposition OKAY, just a big ol pile of catra feelings, the whole series interspersed with pre-canon and post-canon and deleted scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 68,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellethewriter/pseuds/chellethewriter
Summary: “You look out for me, and I look out for you.”Catra really, truly thought that no matter how the world grew or shook or crumbled, there would always be a Catra so long as there was an Adora, and an Adora so long as there was a Catra.“You promise?”Catra wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe Adora’s promise so badly, she turned herself into a liar.Because that was the nature of promises, after all. Either promises only make liars—or only liars make promises. It was a chicken-egg problem to be sure, but the fact remained that Adora lied to Catra. And by believing Adora’s promise, Catra lied to herself.(A convergent, non-linear character study of Catra—past, present, and future. Featuring Catra's POV on canon, pre-canon, deleted scenes, and post-canon)
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: the catradora brain rot collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804756
Comments: 125
Kudos: 612





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on an original novel since March. I've written about 70k in a little over three months. 
> 
> Once this fic is all posted, it will total over 60k. I wrote it in two weeks.
> 
> The moral of this story is that I've completely lost my mind.
> 
> I will post chapters every other day unless I decide to give up and post them all at once.
> 
> This fic is all about converging past, present, and future so we're starting with past and present in this chapter. There will be five chapters total.

vanishing point:  a spot on the horizon line at which all receding parallel lines start, end, converge and disappear. 

#  i.

##  scratch

There’s a list of them—the memories that Catra would like to  _scratch, scratch, scratch_ out of existence. They’re corrosive things, these memories. An itching in her skull. A sickness in her chest. Her claws ache to tear them apart; to shred every memory into ribbons, reducing them to meaningless streaks of color and sound. 

And still, the ribbons would remain. Pieces. Memories of memories. In fury, she’d scorch the colors black, and use the smoke to suffocate every sound into silence. 

And what could be better than that silence, that empty darkness? What could be better than a blank list, a clean slate of memory? Finally, she’d be someone else, someone better. 

But somehow—despite time and space and Catra’s own best efforts—the list remains. The memories crowd ever closer and more abundant, while _"better”_ remains elusive as ever.

* * *

##  alone

In the Horde, being alone was a prerequisite. Hordak could cram and cram recruits into his barracks—fill them to bursting and pile people on top of each other—and still, the loneliness would pervade. That was just how the Horde was. How it would always be. If you weren’t alone from the start, the Horde would make you that way. 

Catra didn’t know the exact logistics, but she could do the math. The Horde’s ranks were massive, more massive than any pre-existing supply of Etherian orphans could satisfy. So it stood to reason that when the Horde needed more soldiers, it simply made more orphans. More orphans meant more soldiers. More soldiers meant more hands with which to create orphans. And so the cycle continued onwards forever.

Catra often wondered if the Horde killed her parents—if she was one of the orphans the Horde had made to refill its ranks. 

It was a bad thought. In fact, it was the worst kind of thought—the kind of thought that sent the world teetering from its fragile axis. 

Because what the hell was Catra supposed to do with that thought, if it was true? The Horde was all she’d ever known. If all she’d ever known is  _evil_ and  _cruelty,_ then what did that make Catra? What did she know, except the worst things imaginable?

So every time she thought about it, she tried to forget it. The world kept turning, and things weren’t exactly right, but they were enough. 

Still, she never knew her parents. Where her own name came from, she didn’t even know. It was just what she’d been called as long as she could remember: Catra. A designation given to her by the Horde, perhaps? It would be nice to know. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be. 

Her earliest days were a blur of fear and hunger; endless hours of clawing, dodging and running. Catra was small, smaller than most, and somehow that made her existence a crime. As punishment, the larger kids devised many not-so-creative ways to torment her—driving their sweaty knuckles into her stomach, kicking their dirty feet into her shins, grabbing at Catra’s meager rations with their grimy, greedy fingers. 

The Horde didn’t feed her much as it was. But frequently Catra found herself with even less. Many nights, they left her with nothing. Nothing except blinding pain, budding bruises, and aching hunger. 

Slowly, she learned to be quick—to escape with what was hers. Slowly, she learned to fight—to claw through the people who threatened her. 

Slowly, she learned to be strong. 

Because who would look out for her otherwise? No one. Not a single person. She was alone. Maybe someday, with some luck, she’d show enough promise as a cadet to join a team, or a squadron. And as a soldier among comrades, Catra could pretend that she wasn’t so alone. Just like everyone in the Horde did when they got older. 

But the Horde never truly needed  _all_ the orphans it made. Hordak prefered to weed out a few early on, letting hunger and bullies claim the weakest of them. Catra refused to be counted among the weakest. 

Though she remembers a few bad nights. The closest calls, the nights when weakness was at its strongest. 

She remembers one night, in particular. 

The whole Fright Zone had sweltered like an enormous furnace, blisteringly hot and drenched in smog. Sweat and dehydration sapped at Catra’s energy. She was tired. Hungry. Thirsty. When the bigger kids came—laughing their hyena laughs—Catra’s sluggishness had betrayed her. She managed to slip away eventually, but not before they kicked the air from her lungs and blackened one of her eyes. 

Catra barely escaped the skirmish with half of her ration—a mealy bar of hard-packed nutrients, now torn down the middle. As she settled into a corner, sinking to the floor with her back against the wall, Catra felt half-sick. The air was hot, so hot, and her injured body seemed to bake and boil in the heat.

“Owie!” a high voice suddenly exclaimed, and Catra jumped to see a hand suddenly reaching toward her face. “Does that hurt?”

Frightened, Catra gave a terrible hiss—the most threatening she could muster despite her exhaustion and small size—and jerked her head away. The hand retreated with a small gasp of surprise. 

Glaring, Catra looked up to see a small girl standing above her, barefoot and sweaty. Griminess was expected for Horde orphans, and yet this girl seemed cleaner than most. Childishly plump, not gaunt. Dimples in her cheeks. 

Oddest of all was the tassel of wheat-colored hair gathered at the girl’s neck, the strands surprisingly soft-looking and well-kept. Catra’s hair was a wild, mangy thicket by comparison, and she almost grew self-conscious of it.

“What d’you want?” Catra half-hissed, squeezing her back even more tightly into the wall. 

Hostility radiated from Catra’s every nerve, but the girl didn’t seem to care. Her hand remained outstretched, hovering close to Catra’s face. The brush of her fingers restrained only by the hesitation in the girl’s face. Catra’s eyes continued to dart between them: the hand and the girl’s eyes. The hand. The girl’s eyes. Over and over again. 

“I don’t—” The girl hesitated before finally lowering her hand. “Your eye. It looks hurt.”

“It  _is_ hurt,” Catra said, voice shrill. She gestured to the black eye. “Haven’t you gotten one before?”

“Nuh-uh,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “Can I help?”

Catra’s mismatched gaze sharpened in annoyance, the yellow eye near-incandescent beneath the ring of blue and black. “No. You can’t. Not unless you have magic, or something.” 

The girl shook her head again. No magic. As Catra expected. 

Catra was too hungry to continue the conversation. Instead, she elected to clamp her mouth around the ration bar and tear, rending the food like an animal. The girl continued to watch her in awe and confusion. 

Suspicious, Catra lowered her ration bar and said: “Don’t try it. This is my food—go get your own!” 

The girl’s gaze wandered to what remained of the ration bar in Catra’s hand. Her eyes widened.

_"That’s_ your dinner? It’s so small.”

“It was bigger before.”

“Before what?” 

“Before a bunch of meanies took a lot of it,” Catra huffed, refusing to meet the other girl’s eyes. She was ashamed to have lost to them—lost her food, lost her dignity. Though Horde orphans don’t know much of dignity. Not orphans like Catra, anyway. 

A pause between them. And then—

“That’s really mean. I’m really sorry they did that.”

Catra looked up at the girl once more, confused by the sincerity and softness of her words. Her eyes narrowed involuntarily. Was this girl even real? Or was this some sort of trick? A ploy to steal what little Catra had? 

The girl smiled. She was missing one of her front teeth, but it was a soft smile. A smile as soft as her words. Catra had never seen, heard, or felt  _soft_ before. She hadn’t even known the word back then.  _Soft._ Nothing in the Horde had been soft. Not the sky above, not the ground below. All of it was hard and heavy and mechanical. 

But the girl—this strange, soft, smiling, all-too-pretty girl—leaned close to Catra, lowering her voice to a whisper. She should have felt threatened. She should have pushed her away, swiped a claw across those round cheeks and cheerful eyes. 

But she didn’t. Catra was so confused by the sheer  _lack_ of threat that she forgot to flinch, forgot to back away. She did absolutely nothing as the girl began to whisper words directly into her ear, closer physically than Catra had ever allowed anyone. 

“Stay here,” the girl told Catra in that too-loud whisper, the kind children always use to tell their secrets. “I’ll be right back.”

The girl darted out of sight. And for the first time in her life, Catra wasn’t quite relieved to be left alone. 

Minutes passed. Long minutes. Many minutes. Time stretched, lounging long and tortuous. Catra occupied herself by gnawing on what remained of the ration bar, wondering if the girl would ever return. Or if she had even existed at all.

But apparently, she had. Catra jumped at the sensation of someone tapping on her shoulder. The girl had suddenly reappeared at her side, still smiling. There was something in her hand. 

“Here,” said the girl, dropping a full ration bar into Catra’s lap. “We won’t let them steal this one.” 

Catra’s jaw dropped, astounded. Her hands cradled the ration bar like something precious—something mythical and unfathomable. “You’re giving me your food?”

“Well, not  _all_ of it,” the girl said, shrugging somewhat sheepishly. “I usually have some extras.”

With that, the girl pulled another ration bar from the waistband of her Horde-issued shorts. Two ration bars. The girl had  _two_ ration bars. One for Catra and one for herself. And more incredibly, both of them were wrapped. Clean. Undented. Clearly not stolen—not unless the girl could turn invisible and grab them fresh from the factories. 

“How’d you get so many?” Catra asked, even more disbelieving than before. She’d never heard of anyone receiving more than one ration bar. 

“Shadow Weaver,” the girl explained. “She gives me extras, sometimes, if I train really hard. Harder than everyone else. Shadow Weaver says if I work hard, she’ll make me somebody important someday.”

Catra had, on occasion, seen the dark, scary, impossibly tall sorceress gliding her way through the Horde barracks. Everything about her seemed dangerous. Catra had always avoided wandering into her path—or her notice. It was difficult to imagine someone so terrifying giving rewards to anyone, no matter how well they performed. 

Catra jumped as the girl dropped to the ground across from her. No one had ever sat so closely with Catra before. Or so casually. 

The girl tore open her ration bar and stuffed a large chunk of it into her mouth. Catra swallowed a laugh at the girl’s overstuffed cheeks and unabashed glee. 

Glee. Catra had never seen such a thing before. And she knew from firsthand experience that the ration bars, however nourishing they were, weren’t exactly  _joyous_ things to consume. If this girl was gleeful, it wasn’t because of the ration bar. It was because of Catra. 

“I’m Adora,” announced the girl—Adora—speaking around a mouthful of gray ration dust. “What’s your name?”

Blue-gray, disconcertingly friendly eyes bored into Catra’s mismatched blue and yellow ones. Catra’s instincts screamed to take the ration bar and run, or take Adora’s ration bar for herself too and  _then_ run. But it didn’t feel right. Adora was being nice. Too nice. Nicer than anyone had ever been, ever, in the history of the world. 

“Catra,” she said. “My name’s Catra.”

An even broader smile erupted across Adora’s face. “Well, Catra, if any meanies steal your food again, you can always come find me.”

* * *

##  promise

_“You look out for me, and I look out for you.”_

Catra really, truly thought that no matter how the world grew or shook or crumbled, there would always be a Catra so long as there was an Adora, and an Adora so long as there was a Catra. 

_“You promise?”_

Catra wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe Adora’s promise so badly, she turned herself into a liar. 

Because that was the nature of promises, after all. Either promises only make liars—or only liars make promises. It was a chicken-egg problem to be sure, but the fact remained that Adora lied to Catra. And by believing Adora’s promise, Catra lied to herself. 

She should have known. In fact, deep down, she  _did_ know. From the start, Catra should have just accepted the awful, angry truth: that hearts are singular, proprietary—incapable of belonging to anything or anyone outside the ribcage they call home. 

Catra didn’t choose Adora. She never begged for her friendship or her attention. It was Adora—pretty and optimistic and generous Adora—who chose Catra. Adora chose to make that promise; she chose to sit beside Catra in the barracks and rope their fates together.

Adora, who was so easy to trust. Always evaporating Catra’s tears with that kind smile, that gentle touch. Even then, it should have been obvious that Adora hadn’t belonged in the Fright Zone. How could she have belonged in that place, that wasteland of shadow and storm clouds? Adora was nothing like that, nothing like the rest of them. She shone too brightly; a patch of golden sky—a horizon drenched in sunrise, utterly untouched by the curtain of smog over their heads. 

And someday, Catra would learn just how like a horizon Adora could be. Distant. Untouchable. Pretty to look at but impossible to follow.

Not that Catra wasn’t grateful, at the time. Adora’s promise took every scary facet of the world and folded it into a small, neat little box. Manageable. Simple. Good and clean and mutually beneficial, just as Adora liked things. 

And someday, Catra would learn that Adora would always be good at that. Oversimplifying things. Weaponizing selflessness to get what she needed.

But she was young and scared, and the only world Catra wanted was Adora’s world. The horizon line. A patch of clear, golden sky. 

_“I promise.”_

* * *

##  nightmare

Catra used to have a sleep problem. 

She had no problem falling asleep, really. It was what happened  _after_ she fell asleep that bothered her so. 

Catra often dreamed that she found herself trapped in a dark, empty  _nothing_ . No one around. Nothing to see. No sound at all. She would scream until her lungs broke apart and still no one would hear her, no one would find her. No one cared and no one was looking for her.

“It’s just a silly dream,” Adora always said when Catra brought it up, an amused sort of smile twisting across her lips. “That’ll never happen.”

And most of the time Catra would let the dream go, switching the topic and pushing it to the back of her mind. But other times, she needed more. More reassurance, more proof. 

“But what if Beast Island is like that?” Catra would then ask, voice thick with terror. “What if I get sent to Beast Island, and I’m all by myself—”

Adora always just kept smiling. “Beast Island has monsters and plants and stuff, it wouldn’t be like that. And besides, I’d never let you get sent to Beast Island.”

“Shadow Weaver could send me there.”

“But she wouldn’t.”

“Yes, she would. She hates me!”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She does.”

“I wouldn’t let her send you there,” Adora would insist, each word final and deliberate. An oath of sorts, even if it wasn’t explicitly made. “And even if she did,” Adora always continued, “I’d find you and bring you back. We made a promise, remember?”

Catra always nodded, acknowledging that Adora was probably right. And that would more or less end the longer conversations about the dream. 

These conversations didn’t stop that horrible nightmare, though, however much Adora tried. It occurred infrequently at first. A couple nightmares every few days. That was manageable enough. But eventually, the dreams assumed a more nightly schedule. Catra would wake each night with a gasp, pulse skidding beneath her ribcage, skin soaked in sweat. Sometimes the nightmare would even jolt her upright, causing her forehead to slam into the ceiling of the top bunk. 

“Catra?” would come Adora’s drowsy voice from the bunk beneath her, roused by the loud clang of Catra’ skull on metal. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Catra would mutter, rubbing at the bruise forming between her eyebrows. “Just fine.”

At that point, Catra elected to forgo sleep entirely. Better not to sleep than to sleep restlessly, she figured. She’d lie awake long after the other cadets fell asleep, blue and yellow eyes squinting into the darkness of the barracks. The silence was eerily reminiscent of the dream, she thought. But at least this was darkness she knew. 

In fact, all was going well until Catra started to doze off during Shadow Weaver’s training sessions. 

“She won’t do it again, I promise!” Adora protested, once again standing as a barrier between one of Shadow Weaver’s rages and Catra’s crouched, fearful form. Shadow Weaver had seen Catra nod off this time, mistaking exhaustion for laziness. Or worse, impertinence. 

“Please forgive her. She’s just been having trouble sleeping lately,” Adora insisted, voice firm yet pleading. She hardly flinched as writhing, menacing shadows began to manifest all around them.

“I thought sleep would be the one thing you’d excel at, Cadet,” Shadow Weaver hissed at Catra over Adora’s shoulder. “But you can’t even seem to manage that.”

Catra didn’t know what to say. How could she apologize for something so utterly outside her control? She would erase the dream if she could, wash it from her mind. But the dream was within her and going nowhere, no matter how hard she tried to rid herself of it. 

Eventually, the shadows dissipated and Shadow Weaver swept out of the room. Catra and Adora breathed synchronous sighs of relief. 

That night, as Catra began to climb up to her bunk, Adora gave her tail a gentle tug. Catra looked down at her questioningly. 

“Why don’t you just sleep down here tonight?” 

When they were very little, Catra and Adora had occasional sleepovers where they talked all night long. Well, almost all night long. Catra would inevitably fall asleep at the foot of Adora’s bed when they had both tired themselves out. The bunks were narrow as it was, and it was more comfortable for Catra that way. But as training grew in intensity, their sleep had become more valuable. And those sleepovers became a thing of the past. This was the first time Adora had suggested such a thing in a long while. 

“How’s that gonna help anything?”

“Well,” Adora began with a shrug, “you could fall asleep holding onto my ankle or something. And then if you have the nightmare again, you’ll feel it and know it’s not real.”

Catra examined the ground. “I don’t think—”

“I think it’ll help,” Adora said. “And if you’re having a nightmare, at least I’ll know and we can talk about it.”

Catra didn’t really want to wake Adora if the nightmare struck again. They all needed their sleep, and disrupting the sleep patterns of Shadow Weaver’s favorite cadet seemed like a particularly effective way to make Catra’s nightmare a reality. 

“We can just try it for one night, if you want,” Adora then offered. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

Such simple logic. Adora’s specialty. How could Catra argue with her? 

Slowly, Catra nodded in agreement. Adora smiled and shifted to make space toward the end of the cot, pulling the blanket so that it only covered above her knees. Catra curled herself there, resting her hand tentatively against Adora’s ankle.

At that moment, Catra was determined to keep this plan from working. She would stay awake again and lie, telling Adora that the nightmare returned despite their efforts. Surely this couldn’t be a good way for either of them to sleep, crammed into a tiny cot like this. Certainly, they were too old for this sort of thing. 

But for Adora, she would pretend to try. 

And the lights went out as scheduled. 

From the top bunk, the barracks had always seemed completely silent. Catra’s bunk was suspended midair, separated from the world below, all sound smothered by the padding of the cot. But down here, the barracks were distinctly louder. Dripping with water. Filled with creaking cots. Intercut with coughs and sniffles. 

She could hear and feel Adora slowly drift off to sleep, her breaths growing as steady and rhythmic as the engines of the Horde’s machines. The blanket shifted slightly with those breaths,  _up and down,_ _up and down._

Cold bit at Catra’s skin, uncovered by Adora’s blanket. Catra quickly realized her own stupidity. She should’ve grabbed the blanket from her own cot before settling down here, but she couldn’t risk waking Adora now. 

At least Catra’s hand was warm where it met Adora’s ankle. She pressed her side closer to Adora’s legs, letting their warmth soak into her. 

It seemed that everything about Adora was noisy and warm and moving. Even in sleep, she was so present and persistent, demanding all of Catra’s attention. Unwittingly and eternally pushing all other thoughts out of Catra’s mind. 

Catra counted Adora’s breaths, measuring them against the pulse in Adora’s ankle. For hours, Catra listened to the subtleties of shifting fabric and Adora’s quiet, sleeping sighs until, finally, she fell asleep.

It was years before Catra had that nightmare again.

But it did come back. It came back stronger, if anything. The nightmare pushed back in as soon as Adora left, occupying Adora’s space on the bed, tearing up Catra’s pillow into feathers and ribbons of shredded fabric. 

* * *

##  numbered

Catra’s days were numbered. Numbered, yes. Measured, yes—but not in sunrises and sunsets. 

Catra’s days were numbered by a single unit. A single, finite, terrifyingly quantifiable variable: the depth of Adora’s attachment to her. The day Adora stopped caring would be Catra’s last, and not by choice. Not by Catra’s choice, anyway. 

Shadow Weaver hated Catra. There was no doubt in Catra’s mind about that. No doubt that she wanted to kill Catra, no doubt that the terrible act would bring Shadow Weaver nothing but pure delight. 

Shadow Weaver, who was the only mother Catra had ever known. Shadow Weaver, whose masked gaze, though expressionless, always seemed to carry a special contempt for Catra above all others. Shadow Weaver, who looked at Adora with tenderness and pride—the likes of which Catra couldn’t even imagine. 

Shadow Weaver, who wanted to kill Catra. Kill her. With a capital K,  _Kill._

She had been a child when she first realized this. A child. Barely more than six years old and foolish enough to traipse into the Black Garnet chamber at her own risk. And yet at six years old, she knew that her mother—or the closest thing she had to one—wanted her dead. 

Shadow Weaver probably fantasized of ways to do it, too. Dreaming of the day she could finally off stupid, incompetent, impertinent Catra—just like she’d always wanted. 

Oftentimes, Catra found herself wondering what it’d be like, when it finally happened. Not  _if,_ When. When Shadow Weaver finally executed her. Perhaps she would arrange some awful accident, using magic to drop something heavy on top of her. And of course it would be too easy to send her on a suicide mission, use her as cannon fodder, place her at the end of a rebel’s spearpoint. 

Or maybe—and this was the one Catra really feared—Shadow Weaver would send her shadows to do it. Those writhing, horrific snakes of darkness, curling around everything, garroting even the barest trace of daylight. She'd been tormented with them before, and Catra worried that they’d climb down her throat—that she’d swallow them until her brain starved of oxygen.

She thought about this too much. Too much, and too often. 

She was sure Shadow Weaver did too. 

“What’s wrong?” Adora would always ask, noticing Catra’s distracted expression. Adora wore concern in the same way Catra wore disdain—with far too much pride. 

She learned not to let it show on her face, when she thought of these things. Adora would only worry. And if Adora worried, she was unhappy. And Shadow Weaver wouldn’t tolerate Catra making Adora unhappy. 

There was only one thing keeping Catra alive at that point. Adora cared for Catra. Adora wanted Catra around. Killing Catra would upset Adora, and Shadow Weaver would never upset her precious Adora. 

It wasn’t about Catra at all. It never was. It was all about Adora. 

And it would always be about Adora. Adora, the hero. Catra, the sidekick. And someday later…Catra the villain. 

But Catra knew. She always knew that the second something changed—the second Adora stopped wanting Catra around—it’d be all over. Shadow Weaver would be done with it. Done with her. 

“Nothing,” Catra would reply, managing a reassuring smile. Because that was what she would be, if Adora stopped asking. Nothing. Dead and gone. Catra only mattered if Adora thought she did. Catra only mattered if Adora asked  _"What’s wrong?"_ ” every time fear crept across Catra’s face. 

Adora never knew, though. She never knew the kind of power she had. Power over Catra. Power over Shadow Weaver. Power, endless power, tiara or no tiara. Sword or no sword. 

Eventually, Catra convinced herself that it never meant anything. That Adora was just a survival mechanism. Of course she had to be friends with Adora. Of course Catra had to pretend to care. If she didn’t, Shadow Weaver would have disposed of her. They weren’t really friends. They never were. 

When Catra loved Adora, it was only to stay alive. 

That was it. Nothing more to it. 

But sometimes, when Catra masked her fear with smiles, when she pretended that nothing was wrong...it wasn’t just for Shadow Weaver. Maybe that was the sickest part. That it wasn’t always about staying alive. That sometimes, when she kept Adora from worrying, it was for Adora. For Adora and no one else. For those blue-gray eyes that cared too much, and saw too little. 

But it was all so tangled and wrong. It couldn’t be love if the alternative was death. Wasn’t that true? Didn’t Catra deserve a choice? 

Adora had a choice—every choice that mattered. And still she chose wrong. 

* * *

##  broken

“You don’t have to go back there! We can fix this!”

Adora had watched a lifetime of Catra’s misfortunes. Shadow Weaver’s endless abuses. The malnourishment, the bullying, the very nature of their profession—namely, that they’d be forced to die for some overlord who couldn’t care less for any of them. None of this had bothered Adora. None of this had forced Adora to consider, even for a second, that they were on the wrong side. 

But Catra had always questioned it. She always knew there was something wrong—that people weren’t meant to live this way, the way they lived in the Horde. Of course, she had never expressed those concerns out loud. She wouldn’t grant Shadow Weaver the satisfaction of branding her a traitor. 

But Catra knew, at least, that no good organization—army, empire, _whatever_ the Horde called itself—would employ someone like Shadow Weaver. Not that Adora ever noticed. Not that Shadow Weaver ever gave her a reason to notice. 

The Horde had been good to Adora, and Adora had been good to Catra. So it wasn’t like Catra could just up and leave. Where would she run to?  _Who_ would she run to? 

At least she knew the Horde. There was a saying she’d heard once:  _the devil you know is better than the one you don’t._ And boy, was the Horde ever a devil. But she had no guarantee that there was something better. After all—if there was something better, something stronger, wouldn’t Catra have been rescued from this nightmare by now? 

But eventually, there came a day when everything changed. 

A day when Catra found Adora standing before her, claiming that her eyes had finally been opened wide. That the true nature of the Horde—the evil of its ways—had finally become clear. 

Catra could only stare at her, at those slate-hewn eyes she had known her whole life. The world began to shake, to crumble, and the neat little box that Catra called a life began to unfold itself. 

And what, Catra wondered, had spurred this miraculous realization? 

Adora was only too eager to explain. It was the suffering of these random rebel townspeople, of course. These complete strangers. Strangers whose only misfortunes probably consisted of the few times the Horde had encroached their lands.

As if _that_ was the worst possible fate. If they thought being attacked by the Horde was bad, they should’ve tried growing up in it. 

The Horde had tormented Catra—Adora’s best friend—for years, and Adora had never said a word. But the second that some hick villagers complain about the Horde, Adora was ready to defect? Had she not been paying attention? Did she not care about Catra at all? 

She remembered balancing Adora’s Force Captain pendant between her fingernails, examining its shine in the smog-blurred sunlight. 

Jealousy had surged through her at the sight of that damned thing, that stupid metal trinket that could never belong to her. Shadow Weaver would never permit Catra to become Force Captain. Catra couldn’t even  _conceive_ of that kind of ambition, couldn’t even imagine being promoted, or acting as any sort of leader. 

Never her. Never Catra. Everything Catra wanted had to come through Adora. All of it—love, belonging, leadership, victory—that was Adora’s to give, never Catra’s to earn. 

And without Adora, Catra would lose what little she had. Shadow Weaver would simply  _kill her._

But it didn't matter to Adora. Adora _had_ to leave, for them—these random villagers who never did anything for her. Not for Catra, who would probably die in Adora’s absence. Hadn’t they made a promise? Wasn’t Adora breaking that promise? 

And worse was the implication of it all. When Catra found Adora in Thaymor, it was already too late. Adora had already decided to leave the Horde at that point—she had merely been caught by Catra on the way out, departing without a moment’s consideration of what she was leaving behind. 

Maybe Catra could have accepted this if Adora had said anything that was remotely fair. Something like,  _“This is bad, Catra. But it’s nothing like what the Horde did to you.”_ Something like,  _“I can’t believe I stood by all these years and let Shadow Weaver do all those terrible things to you."_

But this wasn’t about fairness. 

It was about Adora. It was always, always,  _always_ about Adora. Catra could suffer at Shadow Weaver’s hands, but Adora wouldn’t dirty her own.

And if Catra decided to come with her? Well, that was simply an afterthought. Catra supposed she could keep playing sidekick so long as she had Adora’s permission. 

Well. That was where Adora was wrong. There was nothing to fix. Clearly, something was already broken beyond repair. 

And what could Catra do with something broken, except break it some more? 

* * *

##  lose

The Horde’s roof—its railings and rickety balconies—had always belonged to two people, and two people alone: Adora and Catra. It was their kingdom. Their empire. The rest of the world was too afraid to walk across those crumbling grates, too afraid to press their weight against the rusty guardrails. 

But Catra’s feet always struck solid ground. And Adora had a talent for keeping stride with her, stepping exactly where she stepped and not an inch off target. 

Adora was staring at the horizon—at the smoke curling from some distant battleground. The sun was hazy through the smog, glowing a sickly green-yellow between the fumes of the Horde’s factories. 

Adora stared and stared at that horizon line, anxious to know which side would walk away victorious. But Catra wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy staring at Adora. 

“Do you ever worry that we’re losing?” Adora asked. She was sitting with her elbows resting on her knees, legs pulled close to her chest. There was an exhaustion in her eyes that Catra had never seen before. 

Catra, meanwhile, had sprawled out on the metal grates. She couldn’t care less. She really couldn’t. 

“What’s there to lose?” said Catra, because there was really only one thing she could think of. 

* * *

##  gone

Catra didn’t want Adora to come back. 

Why would she? What did Adora ever give her, anyway? A few smiles? A few laughs? A body to throw in between Shadow Weaver’s wrath and Catra’s cowering form?

Well, it didn’t matter anymore. Adora was gone. Shadow Weaver’s golden child had defected, departed—and it wasn’t even Catra’s fault. 

In fact, Catra was the one who'd tried to fetch her. Catra had begged her. Threatened her, even. She'd tried anything, everything, to get Adora to come home. 

Whatever. It didn't matter. With Adora gone, Catra’s quality of life had only improved. She had assumed the role of Force Captain in Adora’s place. Yes, that was right. Force Captain. Catra was Force Captain now. With half the effort, Catra had nabbed Adora’s prized promotion. 

Not that Adora seemed to want it anymore. Catra couldn’t fathom what, exactly, Adora wanted these days, because it certainly wasn’t Catra’s company. 

While Shadow Weaver hadn’t yet killed Catra in Adora’s absence, her behavior hadn’t changed one bit. They spoke infrequently—they always had. But whenever they did speak, each encounter was more of a confrontation than a conversation, with Shadow Weaver spitting contempt in every word. 

Though these days, there was something new in that coarse, angry growl of a voice. Bitterness. Bitterness that  _this_ was all Shadow Weaver could claim: Catra to order around, and the ghost of Adora’s potential to chase across Etheria. 

But Hordak  _did_ manage to force Shadow Weaver to give Catra the Force Captainship. She’d had no choice—just an order to follow. Because even Shadow Weaver answered to someone, just as Catra answered to Shadow Weaver. 

There was a catch, of course. Catra had only received the job because Adora had cast it aside. Which meant that Catra still held nothing that Adora did not give. 

On the other hand, power was still power. Leadership was still leadership. And with Adora gone, Catra had more of  _everything_ than she ever did before. More power, more leadership, more freedom, more respect.

And more time to think. Alone. 

So good riddance, thought Catra. If Adora thought she was too good for Catra’s company, then she could stay gone. 

But that didn’t stop Catra from, well...thinking about it. Thinking about what would happen if Adora  _did_ return. 

What else was she supposed to do, with so much time to think? Without conversation to fill her spare hours? It was difficult to think of anything else as she lay sprawled across her cot—the cot that would have belonged to Adora—had she stayed a day longer. A cot in the Force Captain barracks, one nicer than all the others. Softer. Plusher. But cold and stiff from disuse. 

Catra hadn’t even considered this when Adora had been promoted. That Adora would have moved bunks—and Catra would have learned to sleep alone.

Well. It didn’t matter anyway. No matter who was Force Captain right now, Adora or Catra, Catra would still be sleeping alone. It seemed that was what she was meant to do. 

But in that cot, she wasted her hours thinking away. Thinking that i f Adora came back, she’d have to do it by choice. Even if Shadow Weaver managed to capture her, the Horde couldn’t convince her to fight with them against her will. She was too smart. Too stubborn. She was a people-pleaser, sure, but the Horde was no longer the type of people she wanted to please. 

What would make Adora come back by choice, then? Nothing. No one. She knew that the Horde was evil now, and that was that. What reason would she have to return? 

Except, well.

Except that Catra was still here. 

Catra was here, sleeping in Adora’s bed. Or what would have been her bed. 

* * *

##  sick

Catra awoke to Adora nudging her shoulder. 

“Wha...what?” Catra said, disoriented. Her eyes immediately found Adora upright in bed, retracting the arm she’d used to nudge Catra awake. 

It was still the middle of the night. The lights were off and someone—probably Rogelio—was snoring at the volume of artillery fire. Catra had been sleeping too deeply to notice before, but now she certainly did. Getting back to sleep would be damn near impossible.

“What’s wrong?” Catra asked, battling a mixture of grogginess and annoyance as she squinted at Adora through the darkness. Her eyes could see better than most, in darkness like this. 

Adora’s first answer was a small groan. She’d scrunched her eyes shut in a strange expression—like there was some great pain behind her eyelids—and pressed a hand tightly against her own forehead. 

Then, in a hoarse voice, Adora said: “You should go back up to your own bunk.”

“What?” Catra demanded. “Why?”

Catra didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t often that the barracks were so warm, and she had been quite cozy at the foot of Adora’s bed. 

“I, uh…” Adora’s voice wavered. Her eyes were open now, staring at nothing because it was too dark, but Catra saw the tears gathering at their edges. “You should just go. Please, Catra.”

That was when Catra noticed the sheen of sweat on Adora’s face. And remembered, suddenly, that the Fright Zone barracks had never—not once—been warm enough to be considered  _cozy_ . Rooms in the Horde were either sweltering or freezing—never anything in between. 

A terrible suspicion entered Catra’s mind then, about the temperature. About the warmth. And so Catra leaned forward with an outstretched arm, ignoring Adora’s protests as she cupped a palm against Adora’s forehead. 

Catra nearly gasped. Adora’s forehead practically burned to the touch. 

The barracks weren’t warm at all. Adora was. Adora’s skin was on fire with fever. And Catra had been sleeping comfortably. Obliviously. Enjoying that warmth like it was her own personal furnace. 

Catra lowered her hand, watching in horror as Adora resisted a fit of shivers. 

There were no real doctors in the Horde. If a cadet had done something particularly heroic, they could  _maybe_ get treatment for a combat or training injury...but not for illnesses. A fever was a death sentence for many Horde soldiers. That was, after all, how Hordak preferred it. He considered sickness a sign of weakness. 

But that wasn’t right. Adora wasn’t weak. She was the best cadet of their year. She broke records on nearly every simulation and training course—

“D-don’t tell Shadow Weaver,” Adora pleaded. “She’ll be so disappointed in me—”

“Who cares about Shadow Weaver?” hissed Catra, rearranging herself on the bed so that she too was sitting upright. “That fever is really bad, Adora.”

“I know,” Adora said, exhaling sharply. “I know, okay? I just—I don’t know what to do. If I can’t go to t-training tomorrow—”

“Are you seriously worried about training right now?” Catra said. “Adora. If you don’t get better, you could  _die_ .”

Adora could barely control her own shivering now. She hunched over, arms wrapped around her own chest as her body continued shaking uncontrollably.

“I know that,” Adora said, and this time she was fighting back tears. “Y-you need to go up to your own bunk, before I g-give it to you too—”

“No.”

“Catra,  _please_ —”

“We’ve been sharing the same bed,” Catra reminded her with exasperation. “If I’m gonna get this thing, there’s no avoiding it now.”

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. Catra’s words only made Adora’s tears stream faster. “I’m sorry,” Adora cried in a half-whisper, trying but failing to stifle her voice with her hand. “I should’ve s-said something earlier—”

Catra grabbed Adora’s wrist and held it tight. “Stop that. I’m not angry at you for getting sick.”

Though she didn’t keep hold of it for long. Adora was quick to yank it out of Catra’s hand, though Catra didn’t really see the point. Did she really think she could keep Catra from getting sick by maintaining her distance now, hours after they’d been training and wrestling and sitting side-by-side?

“But it’s not j-just me,” Adora said miserably, slipping under the blanket and speaking through the fabric. “It’s you too. I’m gonna g-get everyone sick.”

Adora’s shivering made the whole blanket quiver. Catra stared at it numbly, recalling all the stories she had heard. The Horde cadets that fell asleep and never woke up in the morning. The coughs in the barracks that turned to heaving gasps and then, finally, eerie silence. 

A moment passed in which Catra imagined that happening to Adora, and her entire body was seized with a breathless panic. The thought of it—of Adora never waking up, of someone carrying her out of the barracks never to be seen again—was worse than anything else Catra had ever conceived of. Even the thought of Shadow Weaver trying to kill her didn’t compare. 

The feeling wasn’t exactly unique, though. It was common enough once, during those old nightmares—the ones that trapped her in that lightless, empty place. Helpless. Hopeless. Alone and falling to pieces in the darkness. 

A frustrated cry tore itself from Catra’s throat. “Forget about everyone else!” she hissed. “You  _need_ to sleep, Adora. Sleep and get better.”

Adora’s voice still shook from behind her blanket. “Y-you think I haven’t tried?” 

“Try harder!” 

Adora heaved a sigh, but the chattering of her teeth broke that one breath into a hundred pieces. “It’s no u-use, Catra,” she said. “I-I’m too cold. And n-no matter what I do, I can’t stop s-shivering.”

They fell into silence, then. Adora, shivering under her blanket. Catra, still upright at the foot of the bed. She couldn’t stop staring at Adora’s form beneath that flimsy layer of fabric. Couldn’t stop staring at that awful trembling. Couldn’t stop wondering what it’d be like, if there was no one under that blanket at all. 

“Move over,” Catra ordered, and began scooting further up the length of the bed.

She felt Adora stiffen against her. “W-what?”

Catra kept moving up, pushing with an elbow to create some space for herself. “You want warmth? Fine. I’ll give you warmth. Now scoot over.”

Realizing just what Catra was attempting to do, Adora raised an elbow of her own and tried to shove Catra back. “No. No, Catra. You’ll get sick—”

“Don’t care,” Catra said, fighting off Adora’s elbow and flopping into the sliver of space she had made for herself. 

Adora kept trying to shove her off the bed. “Don’t be stupid—”

“You’re the one who’s being stupid. I’m trying to help.”

Adora kept pushing, but Catra wouldn’t budge. She was determined to stay crammed against Adora’s side, steadfast, immobile...and warm.

In the end, Adora was forced to give up. She huffed and lowered the blanket—finally acknowledging that it wouldn’t do either of them much good. 

When Adora rolled over, they found themselves face-to-face with one another, staring across the same pillow. Adora’s eyes were glassy from tears and sickness. If there had been any light, Catra would have seen her own reflection in them. 

“Why are you doing this?” Adora asked quietly. 

Catra was quiet for several moments. And then—

“If this thing takes you, it better take me too.”

Adora didn’t reply, at first. Only stared across the pillow. Stared, but with an expression that Catra could only describe as sad. Grateful, somehow, but sad. 

And then Adora was shivering again, her whole body curling in on itself to keep the trembling under control. 

“Give me the blanket,” Catra said, though she was searching for the corner herself—Adora was hardly in a position to help. It wasn’t long before she had layered it over the two of them, having pulled the nearest edge from where it had been neatly tucked beneath the cot. 

Between the blanket and the heat from Adora’s fever, the warmth was near-unbearable, but Catra decided not to mind. Instead, Catra folded Adora into her arms, sharing her warmth, her comfort, her heartbeat. 

Adora gave a small sigh, then pressed her face into the hollow of Catra’s collarbone. She was so close that Catra could feel Adora’s heartbeat beating against her own chest. Close enough to hear it too, pouding frantically to stave off the sickness that threatened it. 

“Thank you, Catra,” whispered Adora, all three words muffled against Catra’s skin.

During their training sessions, Adora was always the height of confidence. All fearless cries of exertion and endless, unbeatable determination. She fought everything headfirst, incapable of losing—incapable of even understanding the meaning of that word, and the helplessness that came with it. 

But here was something she couldn’t defeat with pure force. Something that turned her own body against her, something so completely beyond her control. She was helpless for the first time in her life, and it made her seem so impossibly small and vulnerable. Small enough to accept this—this space between Catra’s arms—and the possibility of wanting someone else. 

Her shivering didn’t stop. But there was, at the very least, another pair of arms to keep it at bay until the morning. 

* * *

##  truth 

If Catra acknowledged the truth, it was only when she was half-asleep. Only in the darkest and latest hours of the night so that, by morning, Catra could pretend she had dreamed every traitorous thought that had entered her head. 

Late at night, in what would have been Adora’s bed, she imagined that Adora would come back for her. 

But this was not a hope to be rescued. She had no interest in being rescued—if Adora swept into the Fright Zone and insisted that Catra defect alongside her, Catra would've been first to knock her off that stupid high horse. Catra couldn’t care less about Adora’s merry little band of rebels and their doomed cause. This wasn’t about Hordak or the princesses or magic or whatever else. 

This was about them—about Catra and Adora—and no one else. 

But mostly, it was about Adora. 

She wanted Adora to come back to the Horde. She wanted Adora to stay, despite her stupid morals. Despite logic and right and wrong. She wanted Adora to stay for Catra, even when everything else about the Horde was meaningless. Even when it was painful. Even when it was what she hated most of all. 

Wasn’t that only fair? Catra had always stayed in the Horde, always stayed with Adora, despite what it did to her. Why couldn’t Adora do the same? 

_“You look out for me, and I look out for you.”_

Catra wanted Adora to love her more than she hated the Horde. 

But she always forced herself to forget that by morning.

* * *

##  pretty

It was the hottest night Catra had ever known. A sticky, humid heat in the dead of summer, the kind that left the barracks blistering and unbearable. Adora and Catra had stripped down to nothing but shorts and loose undershirts, but there was no hope of getting sleep that night for either of them. There wasn’t a person alive who could sleep with that much sweat oozing out of their pores. 

Instead, Adora and Catra had stayed up gossiping about their newest revelation—Kyle’s crush on Rogelio. 

“Do you think he’s gonna make a move?” Adora asked, hiding her laughter behind a hand. It was easier for them to talk side by side like that, lying on the same pillow, even if it was a bit sweatier and warmer than separate bunks or even Catra at the foot of the bed. Adora’s forehead, for one, was slick with sweat, and she’d rolled her shirt up to the spot just above her bellybutton to keep herself cool. 

Catra was careful to keep her eyes on Adora’s face and not anywhere else—not the exposed stomach, not the biceps revealed by her sleeveless undershirt, and  _especially_ not the long stretch of her legs sprawled across the bed. 

This was common practice for Catra lately. It’d been too sudden—the way everyone else had morphed into teenagers. Adora, in particular, seemed to be growing faster than the rest of them. She had already sprouted taller than Catra, taller than all the cadets in their year except Rogelio. 

Though height wasn’t Adora’s only advantage. Years of meticulous training had perfectly toned Adora’s muscles, and it was distracting—the way they swelled and strained and stretched during their daily exercises. Catra wasted so much time watching them that her own performance had started to slip. 

Though that wasn’t because she liked Adora, of course. It was just that...well...Catra was jealous. Clearly jealous. It simply wasn’t fair that Adora got to be tall and strong—not when Catra was still so scrawny and short by comparison.

But no matter how she tried, she still struggled. Struggled to keep her eyes fastened to the walls as Adora changed each morning, always slipping that same white shirt over the defined muscles of her back and…well, the stuff on the other side. The stuff Catra commanded herself to never so much as imagine. 

“No way,” Catra told her. “Who’d want to go out with Kyle, anyway? He’s ugly.”

She watched Adora’s brow furrow in disapproval. “That’s not nice, Catra. How’d you like it if someone called you ugly?”

And those were something else, too. Adora’s expressions. The way she scrunched up her eyes when she laughed or chewed her lips in moments of concentration. The gloating arch of her eyebrows as she bested Catra in their training fights, always pinning Catra to the floor in an unshakeable hold.

Though Adora's victories over Catra couldn’t just be blamed on distracting facial expressions. There were other factors, too—such as Adora's tendency to straddle her opponents with her full weight, effectively trapping them between her thighs. 

It was her favorite tactic to use against Catra, in particular—mostly because it worked so well. And when it was over, Adora never missed the opportunity to gloat—to lean down over Catra and whisper her two favorite words: 

“I win.”

It wasn’t fair. Not in the slightest. 

Catra rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t care if someone called me ugly. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but you don’t need to be pretty to win a war.”

A beat passed before Adora shot her a sideways glance—and a smirk. “You think I’m pretty?” 

Catra’s claws dug into the bed. “What? No! That’s not what I meant!”

“Sure,” Adora said, smiling all the wider at Catra’s denial. “Whatever you say.”

Catra yanked the pillow out from under their heads and stuffed it over Adora’s face just to shut her up. “You’re such an idiot,” Catra grumbled, grateful that the pillow would shield her blazing cheeks from Adora’s sight. “Not everything is about you, y’know?”

“Okay, okay,” Adora laughed, finally wrestling the pillow out of her face. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“What else is new,” Catra muttered, putting the pillow back in its place and settling back down on the bed. She willed her gaze to remain straight ahead, far from Adora’s still-laughing eyes. 

Adora nudged her with a too-warm shoulder. “I think you are too, you know.”

“What?” Catra huffed petulantly, sparing Adora only the briefest of glances. 

“Pretty,” Adora said, reaching for Catra’s hand. “You’re pretty, Catra. Even if you don’t care.”

Catra’s cheeks burned as Adora slid her fingers between hers. She tried to convince herself that it was the hot weather—and the hot weather only—that brought such warmth and color to her cheeks. But Catra hadn’t been quite so good at lying to herself, back then. 

* * *

##  parasite

That stupid, magic sword. That ridiculous shard of shimmering metal. Savior of the rebels. Envy of the Horde. The sword that brought forth She-Ra, the warrior who could crush Horde tanks beneath her naked palms.

It had a name, supposedly. The sword. Shadow Weaver had interrogated the information out of some unlucky rebel insurgent. Lonnie had been standing nearby as the words escaped the rebel’s dying lips, and within hours, the sword’s name had spread throughout the Fright Zone, if not all of Etheria. 

The Sword of Protection. That was what the damn thing was called. 

But Catra knew better. She knew what that sword was, what it  _did._

It was a parasite. 

A magical parasite, but a parasite all the same. Catra had seen firsthand what that sword did to Adora. The way it infected her body—twisting it, changing it, shaping it for its own purpose. 

She-Ra wasn’t a princess—she wasn’t some mystical savior of Etheria. She was merely a side effect of the infection. The defense mechanism. The sword had found its host and it wasn’t letting go. 

And so, with each and every transformation, Catra watched that sword obliterate everything Catra knew about Adora. And what was left, after that transformation was finished? Nothing of Adora’s. Just those impossibly perfect golden curls. Those inhuman, flash-frozen irises. That towering body, rippling with unattainable muscles. 

She-Ra was beautiful in the way that storms were. Breathtaking, but untouchable and unknowable. Dangerous. 

Adora had been beautiful too, but not because she glowed or clad herself in gold. There was beauty in Adora’s lean but still-toned form, tumbling over adversaries in carefully calculated maneuvers. There was beauty in Adora’s smile and its genuine, perfectly ordinary kindness. There was even beauty in that ridiculous hair poof, however much Catra used to taunt her for it. 

Adora was beautiful because she was Adora. And Catra would have gladly burned all of She-Ra away, if only to find Adora again beneath all that snake skin. 

Because that wasn’t her. That wasn’t Adora. That was the creature that had  _consumed_ Adora. That had corrupted her. A being that held Adora’s body hostage so that it could parade around, wearing her face.

Adora wasn’t coming back, because there simply wasn’t an Adora anymore. Not the way there once was. 

* * *

##  undercover

“Undercover training, undercover training, undercover training!” Catra chanted, shaking Adora’s shoulders with every repetition. She’d practically leapt onto Adora's back, causing her to visibly jump and dip under Catra’s weight. 

“Okay, okay. I get it—undercover training week,” Adora said as she brushed Catra’s hands from her shoulders and waved Catra’s tail out of her face.

Compared to the rest of the cadets—Catra included—Adora sounded remarkably unenthused. 

“Come on,” urged Catra. “It’s supposed to be the best week of training. All the graduated cadets said so.”

Adora spun toward the nearest mirror and busied herself with preparing her usual ponytail. She kept talking as she leaned over, flipping her hair upside down so that she wouldn’t be battling gravity. 

“Yeah, but the graduated cadets said that the Whispering Woods simulation was hard. And it wasn’t.” 

Catra scoffed. “It  _was_ hard. For everyone but you, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” Adora asked, flipping her hair back over. 

She examined the resulting ponytail in the mirror for several moments, then grunted in dissatisfaction. As far as Catra could tell, there was nothing wrong with it. But evidently Adora had identified something that Catra couldn’t. Some miniscule imperfection, some tiny hair spilling out from its designated location. So Adora released her hair and started all over again. 

“You aced that course,” Adora said, once again upside down. “Just like I did.”

“Yeah, but it was still hard,” grumbled Catra. “Which undercover training is not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be fun.” 

_“Fun,”_ Adora muttered bitterly, as if the word had done her some great offense. She gave her hair one last flip, and this time, the ponytail seemed to satisfy her. “Training’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to help us defeat the rebellion.”

And then, the next phase of Adora’s hair routine began. A layer of hairspray, to secure each and every hair in place. 

Catra groaned over the hiss of the can. “Could you please just try to have fun for once in your life? Or at least try not to ruin it for the rest of us.”

Adora tossed the can back into her locker and slammed it shut. “I just don’t understand why you’re so eager to dress up like a rebel.” 

“Uh, because spying on people is cool?” said Catra, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Admit it—it’d be cool to go undercover.”

Adora sniffed and folded her arms. “Actually, I'd prefer to attack my enemies head-on. And besides, I just don’t think I could stomach pretending to be a rebel. They’re just so—” Adora shuddered. “You know. Sparkly.”

“Yeah, well,” Catra said with a shrug. “You won’t have much of a choice this week. Not if you want to stay top of the class.”

The training started exactly as the former cadets described—a summary of the purpose of the Horde’s espionage efforts, an overview of Etherian culture and customs, profiles of the key players on the rebel side, and tips to help the cadets trick their way into the rebellion’s good graces. 

Catra heard Adora scoff derisively. “Come on. Like I’m gonna pretend to be friends with Queen Angella. If I saw her, I’d just open fire.”

“That’s not the point, Cadet,” growled their instructor—a veteran spy who had obviously overheard Adora’s comment. “If you killed Queen Angella, her daughter would only take her place, and you would be arrested. But if you  _pretended_ to be a trusted citizen of Bright Moon, she might continue to tell you her plans, which you could then relay to the Horde—blocking the rebellion’s victories at every turn.”

Adora set her jaw. It was clear that she didn’t agree, though she didn’t raise any further  critiques . 

Ultimately, the last day of undercover training was the most exciting. First, they were to learn about disguise tactics. This meant sifting through piles of stolen rebel clothes and fabricating a convincing identity based on the appearance they chose. 

After they had developed their aliases, all cadets were to enter a simulated interrogation. Their goal? To convince the program that they were exactly who they claimed to be. To do this, they had to recall intricate knowledge of the various rebel kingdoms and—more than anything—lie convincingly. 

When the chests of rebel clothes arrived, the cadets descended on them like a pack of wolves. Catra was first to pounce on some pirate garb from Salineas, having yanked the clothes right out of Lonnie’s hands. 

It was simply a good-looking outfit, Catra thought. Puffy sleeves and a comfortable jacket. Though she wasn’t a huge fan of the boots, or the eye patch. 

Adora, unfortunately, had not been fast—or eager—enough. By the time she reached the ravaged chest of clothes, there was only one item left: a sparkly golden dress. 

A dress from Bright Moon, of all places. 

No one had wanted it. Mostly because it looked exactly like what a princess would wear. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Adora said with a groan. She lifted the dress as if it had a terrible smell, extending it at arm’s length and balancing it on a single finger. 

Catra grinned at the dress, then at Adora. “Guess you’ll have to play the princess, princess.”

“Shut up,” snapped Adora, then marched to the locker room to change. She smacked Catra with the dress on the way out, and Catra found herself spitting glitter as she swatted the fabric out of her face. 

Adora always took forever to change, so Catra worked on her alias in the meantime. She was to be  _Stella Seaweed_ , Cat of the Sea. A humble fisherwoman by day and a killer pirate by night. Catra thought the whole thing was all very creative—hilariously stupid, but just believable enough—and was still scribbling notes about her alter ego when she heard Adora step back into the room. 

“I look ridiculous,” came Adora’s voice, grumbling yet again. 

Catra looked up from her notebook.

And immediately dropped her pencil.

Adora looked exactly like one of the princesses the Horde had warned them about—tall, confident, shimmering with what looked like magic. She had released her ponytail from its usual hair tie, leaving the strands to fall loosely around her shoulders. 

And her shoulders—Adora almost never revealed those, unless it was too hot to wear her usual long-sleeve shirt. This dress was sleeveless, though, revealing her shoulders, her back, the smooth skin around her collarbone. 

“And this,” Adora complained further, picking at one of the golden sparkles on her skirt, “is definitely not my color.”

“Y...your  _hair—_ ” Catra stammered. Catra couldn’t even recall the last time Adora had worn it down in public. It might have looked nice, actually—really nice—if, obviously, Adora hadn't been dressed like the enemy. 

A pretty, sparkling,  _dangerous_ enemy. 

Self-conscious, Adora threaded her fingers through the long, blonde waves. “I know, I know. It looks awful. But I wanted to look as little like myself as possible.”

Well, she’d certainly succeeded at that. Catra hardly recognized her beneath all that glitter. 

“So you’ve got the clothes,” Catra observed. “But what's your alias?”

Adora grimaced. “I’m Princess Sunshine. I, uh...rule a desert island.”

Catra pressed her lips together, struggling not to laugh. “Princess  _Sunshine?”_ she echoed. Never in her life had she heard such an utterly ridiculous name.

“Shut up,” Adora snapped again, but Catra absolutely would not. 

“Princess Sunshine,” repeated Catra gleefully. “I cannot believe  _that_ was the name you chose!”

“Catra—” Adora said in a warning voice. 

“What? Was ‘Princess Princess’ already taken?” 

Adora let out another frustrated groan.“Look. All I want to do is take the exam, and then never speak of this again—”

“Are you kidding?” Catra exclaimed. “I am  _never_ letting this go.”

Though she would have to, ultimately, for Adora’s sake. Catra managed to get a decent score on her espionage exam. She had lost a fair number of points for not knowing how to swim, which, given the fact that she was supposed to be a pirate, had been a pretty huge oversight. 

Adora, on the other hand, had absolutely flunked it. She hadn’t been able to tell a lie to save her life. Or her grade, for that matter. And so the espionage exam became the only test Adora had ever failed. 

That night, Catra graciously provided a shoulder to cry on while Adora worked herself into a new level of hysterics. She sobbed all night long about how her life was ruined, how she’d never become Force Captain, how she’d be stuck mopping the Horde’s floors alone with Kyle  _forever._

She was crying so profusely that Catra could do nothing but sit there and stroke her hair, murmuring whatever soothing words she could muster. Comfort had never been Catra’s strong suit, but Adora was such a blubbering mess, Catra doubted she noticed. 

“You won’t be scrubbing floors alone with Kyle. I’d be there too, scrubbing floors right alongside you. You know that.”

Catra meant it too, even if she did roll her eyes from behind Adora’s back. Shadow Weaver would never let her star pupil become anything less than Force Captain. But Adora always had an affinity for worst-case scenarios, and it was often Catra’s job to make those worst-case scenarios seem just a little less terrible. 

Adora blubbered something completely incoherent into Catra’s shoulder. Catra couldn’t decipher a word of it, but she got the gist from Adora’s hopeless tone. 

“And besides,” Catra continued, “mopping floors wouldn’t be all bad. We could make Kyle slip, like, all the time.”

Despite herself, Adora laughed—even if it was a thick and mucousy one. 

* * *

##  feel

Catra didn’t know what She-Ra could feel, if she could feel at all. Did past friendships mean anything to her? Was she capable of feeling guilt? Loneliness? Did she ever miss the people Adora once held close, or was she simply above it all? 

Catra hated staring into She-Ra’s eyes, searching desperately for the affection she once found in Adora’s. There was too much blue in those eyes—bright,  _glowing_ blue, blinding and inscrutable as the sea in sunlight. There was nothing in that gaze, nothing she could interpret. No trace of emotion or humanity. 

Catra never knew whether She-Ra felt emotions. But she could, at the very least, see that She-Ra felt pain. 

She could  _see to it_ that She-Ra felt pain. 

Catra was always so clinical about it. So precise. A claw across the cheek, the arm. A fist in the gut. A kick to the face, the leg. 

If She-Ra had Adora’s body and mind, she also had her weaknesses. Namely, balance. Adora had never been good at keeping her balance, especially not while distracted. Especially not when Catra was doing the distracting. 

And then always, there was the easiest target: the back. It was easy, too easy, for Catra to sink her claws into that stark white fabric, raking slashes deep into the skin, tracing jagged lines across shoulder blades and hip bones. 

It was like she didn’t even know how to protect it—her back. And why would she? Before all this, before She-Ra—before defections and Force Captainships and cots that didn’t smell like they should, like soap and sweat and hairspray—that was Catra’s job. It was  _Catra’s_ job to watch Adora’s back, and Adora’s job to watch hers. 

But now they were both vulnerable. The only difference was that Adora wouldn’t play dirty, while Catra was only too eager to do so. 

_She-Ra_ wouldn’t play dirty, she meant. 

But She-Ra could scream. She could cry in agony. She could plead for mercy. Even if she could feel nothing else, she could feel pain. 

And if She-Ra felt it, could Adora feel it too? Could Adora feel anything, trapped as she was in She-Ra’s golden shell? 

Catra didn’t care if she did. It served her right, if anything. For picking up that stupid sword. For leaving Catra behind. For replacing Catra with new friends who didn’t know her, who didn’t watch her back, who didn’t keep her on balance. 

And if pain was the only thing Catra could make She-Ra—or Adora—feel, then she wouldn’t hesitate to inflict it. 

* * *

## 

##  misstep

“Hold still!” Adora ordered, clicking the tweezers closed, then open again. 

But Catra couldn’t. She squirmed and shrieked and clawed the floor as Adora carefully extracted a couple nasty-looking shards of glass from Catra’s foot. 

But Adora was unwaveringly focused, biting at her own lip with the intensity of her concentration. Catra tried to distract herself by watching that—by watching her—and struggled to ignore the cold bite of the tweezers against her skin. 

“There!” Adora said, releasing hold of Catra’s foot and dropping the tweezers to the floor. “That’s the last of it.” 

Catra scrambled into a sitting position, bringing the foot close for further inspection. There were still a few ugly-looking cuts, but there were no longer any glass pieces physically lodged into Catra’s skin. 

Adora dragged a sleeve across her own forehead, wiping away the sweat that had beaded there during the tweezing process. There was a distinct note of frustration in her voice when she said: “Would it kill you to wear a pair of shoes?” 

“Yes,” Catra replied with a terse nod. She was still clutching her injured foot between her hands. “It would.” 

And Catra she raised the foot, bringing it close to her mouth—

“Don’t you  _dare_ lick that,” Adora gasped, thrusting Catra’s foot back toward the floor, far from the proximity of Catra’s tongue. “I haven’t even cleaned it yet!”

But Catra didn’t want that. This was by no means the first time Catra had suffered a painful misstep. And it definitely wasn’t the first time Adora had been forced to operate on the resulting injury. Experience told Catra that “cleaning” meant applying a stinging layer of disinfectant—the kind that always left Catra howling in pure agony. 

This time, Catra was determined to keep that from happening. “I can clean it fine by myself!” she insisted, clambering to pull her foot far, far away from Adora—and her disinfectant. 

But Adora was having none of this, and Catra soon found herself fighting Adora for custody of her own foot. Twisting, pulling, writhing across the floor as Catra sought an escape that Adora simply wouldn’t allow. 

“Your tongue,” Adora said sternly, “is not a disinfectant. Do you want your foot to get infected?”

“Let me go!” Catra yelled, still desperately trying to yank her foot out of Adora’s reach—though with little success. Adora’s grip on Catra’s ankle was stunningly vice-like. “Adora, stop it, it’s not gonna get infected—”

“If you walk around barefoot with an open wound,” said Adora, “your foot will absolutely get infected. That is literally how infection works.”

Catra shrugged. “It hasn’t happened before.”

“Uh, yeah,” Adora said pointedly. “Because I’ve always cleaned it!” 

“But it  _hurts,”_ she complained, puffing out her lip in the hopes that Adora would take pity and leave her alone. 

Adora only rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a baby.”

Heartless. Adora was heartless. 

And so Heartless Adora kept one hand wrapped around Catra’s ankle, then reached for the bottle of disinfectant sitting at her hip. 

Adora spun around to stare Catra in the eye. Her gaze was accusatory. “Do you promise not to run away if I let go of your foot?” 

“No.”

“Catra.”

_“Ugh_ , fine!” Catra groaned. “I promise.” 

Satisfied, Adora loosened her grasp, instead using both hands to pour the disinfectant onto the clean towels they had stolen from the locker room. She raised one towel to Catra’s foot, and Catra braced herself for pain. 

Though she did not brace herself nearly enough. The moment the cloth touched Catra’s skin, reflex overwhelmed logical thought. She screamed and sent her foot flying upwards toward freedom, toward painlessness, toward—

—Adora’s nose.

Adora cried out, dropping everything—disinfectant, towel, and foot alike—to stifle the copious amount of blood that had burst from her nose. 

_“Shit,”_ Catra hissed, immediately pulling herself upright. She hauled herself toward Adora’s hunched form. Both of Adora’s hands were fully devoted to the task of pinching her nostrils shut, and it wasn’t long before her fingers were utterly soaked in blood. 

“Adora,” Catra murmured. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Adora said calmly, despite how odd her voice sounded with her nostrils closed. “It was an accident. Hand me a towel, will you?”

Catra grabbed as many towels as she could carry and shoved them into Adora’s arms. They were quickly repurposed as tissues, and turned red just as quickly. The sight nauseated Catra slightly, though she knew that blood wasn’t supposed to frighten them. They were Horde soldiers. Or would be, someday.

“Does it hurt?” Catra asked, guilty that she had caused such a mess. And when Adora had been trying to tend to Catra’s injury, no less.

“No,” Adora said, voice muffled by the towel she had placed over her nose. “Not really, anyway.” 

“Are you gonna tell Shadow Weaver?” Catra whispered fearfully. 

Adora shot her a look—one that made it seem as if Catra had suggested something crazy. “Of course not,” Adora said, and then extended a free hand toward Catra’s leg. “Now give me your foot. And try not to kick me in the face this time.”


	2. Chapter 2

#  ii.

##  consequence

Catra was part of the Horde. That wasn’t going to change. That  couldn’t change. The Horde was all she knew. And she was no Adora—she couldn’t pass as a princess. She couldn’t run off and join the rebellion simply because it suited her. Just look at her, mangy thing that she was. Crude and crass. Claws on each finger and toe, a body built for violence and not much else. 

And who could say the rebellion was better, anyway? Catra saw what they were doing, recruiting all those princesses and other kingdoms into their ranks. How was that any different? Armies made of orphans, the both of them. 

Oh, but the rebellion preached  compassion. Friendship. 

Things that Catra was fairly certain were myths, anyway. Compassion and friendship? Catra had encountered those things only once, and they had walked right out that door with Adora. If friendship and compassion were so powerful, so important, why didn’t they last like they were supposed to? Why had Adora left Catra all alone?

The rebellion was built on lies, and Adora was the biggest hypocrite of all. Compassion and friendship were nothing. Nothing of value, anyway, unless you count them as weapons. Tools with which to scrape out hearts and cut people at the knees. 

At least the Horde didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t. They were exactly as advertised—an empire willing to use lethal force to conquer Etheria. 

Catra didn’t really care if Hordak got the power or control he wanted. If Catra could grow up squeezed between smog and machinery, she supposed everyone else could too. 

Really, this wasn’t about Hordak at all. It was about Catra, for once. And what she wanted. 

She knew that if the rebels won, the result would be truly unbearable: a world in which Catra had no place. A world empty of all the things Catra knew. The rebels would obliterate the little that Catra still had. Her power. Her leadership.

Her chance at revenge against She-Ra. 

All right, fine. It was still  a little bit  about Adora. 

It was only fair—there had to be consequences for Adora’s actions. She broke a promise to Catra. And what good was a promise if the person who broke it went unpunished? Adora couldn’t be allowed to just move on with her new friends, couldn’t be allowed the happy ending that Catra could never have. 

And it wasn’t like Adora’s new friends were any good for her anyway. They didn’t want her—they wanted She-Ra. She was crazy to think anything otherwise. 

But Catra would never change Adora’s mind about that. She was too deluded—too in love with the rebellion. So Catra did the only thing she could. If Adora was determined to be the hero, then Catra would give her one hell of a villain. 

Friendships were too easily forgotten. But enemies? Those you had to remember, if you wanted to stay alive. 

* * *

##  name

“Hey, Adora.”

She-Ra’s ice-blue eyes affixed themselves to Catra’s mismatched ones. “Catra,” she said simply, in Adora’s voice. The name echoed like a curse. Or a caress. Truthfully, Catra couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Nothing was as it was. Not Catra, not Adora. Not even the rest of Etheria was spared from this—this fissure between them, and the fallout that ensued.

But the humming in Catra’s veins whenever she said that one word— Adora. Why was that exactly the same? The strange electricity of her presence, the impossible weight of Adora’s name on Catra’s tongue. Nothing about that had changed or diminished.

She-Ra’s sword was raised, her muscles tense with carefully controlled fear. Catra, too, was afraid—though she’d never let it show. Even if the fear was warranted on both sides. Even if they could destroy each other, if they wanted to. She-Ra could tear out Catra’s spine with nothing but her hands. And Catra could use any number of Horde weapons to blow She-Ra to smithereens. 

Neither of them acted on these impulses. But that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t, someday. In a world like theirs, desperate measures weren't just a possibility, but an inevitability. 

Besides, destruction lasts only for a moment. Scars and insults—those last forever. 

And Catra wanted this to last forever. 

So that was the game they played. An endless exchange of injuries and insults. Bruises on both sides, scars upon scars. Swordpoints and claws slashing mercilessly across every inch of skin, real or imagined. 

If she thought long and hard about it, Catra knew that she was not afraid to die. She was not afraid of She-Ra’s muscles, or her sword. 

She was afraid that someday soon, if they continued down this path, Adora would really, truly want Catra dead. 

But that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be Adora’s greatest enemy? 

She hated Adora. She hated Adora so damn much—for what she’d done, for what she’d left behind. But for some reason, she couldn’t stand the thought of Adora hating her back. 

Long ago, Catra had been afraid of everything  except  Adora. Adora had been the only kindness she had ever known—the warm hand that had held hers, the smile that could brighten a room, the mouth that had reassured nightmares away. 

How had they gotten here? How could they have fallen so far?

But then again, maybe she hadn’t feared Adora enough. Hadn’t feared the power Adora held over her nearly as much as she should have.

Or maybe it was worse. Maybe Adora was—had always been—the exact thing Catra feared the most.

* * *

##  lucky

Catra yelped, pain surging through her toes. Adora had stepped on her foot. 

“Sorry!” Adora cried, half-swallowing a giggle. “You know I can’t see anything!”

Her hands fell on Catra’s shoulders, clutching them tightly for support. She wouldn’t stop laughing and bumping into things—the walls, the windows, the other cadets. Every time she did, she’d laugh out an apology and stumble onwards, determined to make her way to the barracks. 

“I have a flashlight in my bunk,” she'd insisted, completely forgetting that Catra didn’t need one, and probably could get them both there unscathed if Adora would only stop barreling ahead. 

It had been storming all day. The Horde's maintenance of the Fright Zone had always been faulty, so it was a surprise to exactly no one when the lights had suddenly blinked out. 

There had been some hope, at least, that the power would be back by nightfall, but the sun had long since set, and there was still no light to be found. Now the entire Fright Zone was trapped in darkness, and no one would be able to see a thing until morning. 

Well…no one except Catra, of course, whose eyes were well-suited for darkness. 

And for the third time that day, Catra spotted Adora on a certain collision course with a metal pole. 

“Come on, you big klutz,” Catra said with mock exasperation, yanking Adora back to her side. 

Adora wobbled some more, struggling to find balance in the darkness, so Catra slipped an arm around her waist to steady her.

“Here’s an idea,” Catra began, nudging Adora playfully. “Why don’t I get the flashlight since I can, y’know, actually see and walk like a functional person.”

Adora shot her a look. A smirking look that only Catra could see—the look she always wore when Catra challenged her to a race, or a training duel. A look that plainly declared one thing—that Adora intended to win. 

Though what she intended to win, Catra had no idea. The only thing Adora was winning right now was a nasty set of bruises, though her laughter didn’t reveal as much. 

“No way,” Adora said indignantly, and squared her shoulders. “I can do this.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“No, really! If you think about it, this is a great training exercise. If we ever do a night raid, or have to explore some caves—”

Adora had made the mistake of barrelling ahead again. Though this time, Catra was too slow to react. Adora’s feet were already tangled in some sort of cable—no doubt a set of electrical wires that had been discarded for replacement.

“Adora, wait—”

Grabbing on to Adora’s shirt was a definite mistake too. Her clumsiness was contagious, and Catra had underestimated the force of her momentum— 

Adora released an inhuman shriek. Catra cursed profusely. And then they fell, the both of them, arms flailing as they toppled onto the ground.

Adora’s body smacked hard against the floor's metal grates. Catra, meanwhile, fell onto something soft and warm. Something that exhaled sharply as Catra’s full weight drove into it.

Adora. She had fallen directly on top of Adora. 

For a few moments, they simply laid there, breathing heavily and groaning in pain. Though Adora was doing most of the latter—only she had been sandwiched so painfully between Catra and the floor. 

But then, as they fully processed what had just happened, they found themselves erupting into laughter. Their whole bodies shook with it—that blinding, gasping ,  belly-aching kind of laughter. 

The noise of their humor echoed down the hallways for the entire Horde to hear, reverberating loud enough for people to grumble complaints and call for them to shut up. But no one came to physically stop them, so neither Catra nor Adora listened. 

“You tripped over something, dummy,” complained Catra, but that was all she could manage before the hysterics set in again, and the thoughtlessness that came with them—the blind joy that dropped Catra’s head onto Adora’s chest, where she could hear Adora’s heartbeat echoing between each fresh peal of laughter. 

“Oh, you think so?” Adora scrubbed at her eyes with a palm, trying to wipe away the tears of laughter that had streamed so heavily down her cheeks. “I hadn’t noticed.”

They stayed there for a while in that lightless hallway, allowing their laughter to evaporate into sighs. Catra could feel herself getting comfortable. Too comfortable. It was only a matter of time before someone came and tripped over them. 

Catra propped herself up on her arms and started to rise to her feet. “We should get going,” she said. “But this time, I’ll be the one leading the way. Since I can actually see.”

She shifted a bit more, prepared to roll to a standing position—

“Wait,” said Adora softly. 

Catra did. She glanced downward, wondering if Adora had been hurt more than she'd let on. The last thing either of them needed was for Adora to have a broken leg, or some other injury. Shadow Weaver would never let Catra hear the end of it. Or worse, maybe she would. 

But Adora revealed no injury. She only raised a hand. Raised it, and brought it to Catra’s face. 

Catra laid there, frozen, as Adora’s fingers brushed the skin of her forehead, trailing gently from the spot above her eyebrow to the tip of Catra’s chin.

She thought it would stop there—that the hand would lower itself back to Adora's side—but it didn't. It kept going. Tracing the chin, the jaw, the curve of the neck. Catra’s skin prickled strangely beneath her touch. 

“Is that your face?” Adora whispered. “I can’t see a thing.”

Catra could tell. Beneath her, Adora’s eyes were entirely unfocused and unseeing, squinting helplessly into the darkness. 

Everyone else in the Fright Zone might have been blind, then. But to Catra, Adora was practically glowing in the shadows of that hallway. A couple strands of hair had escaped from her ponytail, curling across Adora’s forehead in a way that made her look uncharacteristically disheveled. 

But then Adora’s fingers climbed to Catra’s lips, and briefly, Catra considered how easy it would be. To lean down. To brush Adora’s lips with her own, a kiss as gentle as Adora’s fingers. 

She wished it were involuntary, the way her own hand rose to snatch Adora’s away. 

“Stop that!” Catra hissed, still clutching Adora’s hand, squeezing it perhaps a bit too hard. “You’re gonna poke my eye out.”

It was a lie, of course. But Adora would never know. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Adora said, yanking her hand out of Catra’s grasp. Catra practically fell off of her, onto the floor, as Adora hurried to her feet. 

“It’s just weird, is all. Not being able to see in the dark,” continued Adora, gesturing vaguely to the pitch blackness around them. “You’re real lucky, Catra. You know that?”

Catra looked down at the floor that only she could see, and wrapped an arm around her own middle. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m real lucky.”

* * *

##  cheating

Catra couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t let Shadow Weaver press “reset” on everything that had happened. 

She could erase as many of Adora’s memories as she wanted, but it wouldn’t change what Catra knew. She knew that Adora had been willing to abandon her. She knew how little she meant to Adora. How little Adora wanted the things that Catra did. 

What would Catra be expected to do, if it worked? Did Shadow Weaver really expect Catra to look Adora in the eye? To pretend to be friends after Adora had torn the heart from Catra’s chest? Did she really expect Catra to give up the little power she had? And to Adora, of all people. Adora, who didn’t even want it. Adora, who wasn’t even  meant to be part of the Horde. 

This wasn’t what Catra wanted. And it definitely wasn’t what Adora wanted, either. 

It was one thing to fight. It was one thing to hurt each other. They were enemies—that was what they did. They fought because they disagreed. They fought because they had done terrible things to one another, things that couldn’t be reconciled any other way. 

But this was breaking the rules. This wasn’t winning, or losing. It was cheating. It was  wrong. 

This was Shadow Weaver, jabbing her fingers into Adora’s mind so she could repaint the truth. 

Catra wondered, briefly, if Shadow Weaver had tried this before. If she had spent her whole life sticking her fingers into their brains, twisting their thoughts, altering their reality. The very idea was sickening. Sickening enough to send Catra to the wall, clutching cold metal for support. 

She knew, of course, that Shadow Weaver had always sought to manipulate them. But this was something different. This was something sinister. This went beyond control, beyond manipulation. This was a violation of the one thing that Horde soldiers were actually allowed to keep: their memories.

“Here. Take it,” Catra ordered, extending that sword—that horrible, parasitic sword that she hated so much—for Adora to take. 

Adora’s eyes were pools of suspicion, fear, and disbelief. The other princess—the sparkly one—had been pushed behind her for protection. Of course Adora expected Catra to attack, to keep them from leaving. She thought Catra was going to recapture her so that Shadow Weaver would have her way. 

Well, she was wrong. As usual. She should’ve had more faith in Catra all along. 

But when neither of them moved—when it became clear that Catra had no intention of striking—Adora finally outstretched her hand. She took the sword, so large in her grasp, and stared at Catra questioningly as she lowered it to her side. 

“This is not because I like you,” said Catra, struggling to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. 

Catra and Adora wouldn’t make amends. But they wouldn’t live a lie, either. 

* * *

##  recognize

Catra was kneeling on the ground, gasping to reclaim the breath she had lost in the fight. 

She-Ra was already striding toward her. A tower of a woman, with hair that shook in a wind that didn’t exist. Even as she walked to deliver what would likely be a killing blow, she was regal. Radiant. Truly, only She-Ra could make murder look so graceful. 

And there, beneath the tiara, was Adora’s face, arranged into a mask of remote determination. 

She-Ra kicked Catra onto her back, and Catra rolled, helpless, across the rough stones of the valley they had tumbled into. Stones that scraped cuts into her skin, her face. 

Though as Catra’s eyes found the sky—and the princess standing over her—she saw that She-Ra was not without a few cuts of her own. Three slashes on the leg. One on the arm. Two more through the eyebrow. 

Catra’s doing, though hardly her best work. The fight had fallen out of Catra’s favor too quickly that day, and she’d resorted to her most desperate tactic—attacking the face. That was the one place Catra’s claws always tended to avoid. It was, after all, far easier for her to attack the parts of She-Ra she didn’t recognize. 

Catra’s chest continued to heave as she stared down at the tip of She-Ra’s sword —the one that had been poised right over her heart. It was strange for She-Ra to have a sword, she thought somewhat deliriously, when Catra had never seen her stab anyone with it. She'd always used it as a bludgeon, or a blaster, or even a length of rope.

But she’d never run anyone through with it. Not yet, anyway. 

Though as Catra kept looking down at the sword, sweat gathering along her brow, she wondered whether today would be the day. 

The swordpoint was cold. She-Ra’s gaze—and grip—were steady. 

“Do you know what I would give,” came Adora’s voice, taut with a terrible rage, “to hate you even  half as much as I miss you?”

Catra blinked, knowing that Adora couldn’t mean it. She couldn’t mean those words, just like she couldn’t mean all the things she told Catra, all those years ago. The plans and the promises they had made together. The ones that Adora had pushed far, far away. Away from herself, away from Catra. Out of mind, sight, and reach for the both of them.

The sword climbed and fell, but not where Catra feared it would land. Instead, it was plunged into the ground beside Catra’s shoulders, balanced in the dirt like some gleaming tombstone. 

“Get out,” she told Catra, each word rough and scraped as the ground beneath their feet. “Get out of this village, and never come back. Or I’ll do it. I swear, I’ll—”

But then it broke. Her voice. 

Catra didn’t argue. She would never beg for mercy, but she wouldn’t reject it either. 

So she scrambled to her feet, and ran.

* * *

##  hourglass

These other things, they should matter to Catra. Defeating Shadow Weaver, replacing her. Nearly conquering Bright Moon. Acting as Hordak’s second in command. She was one of the most powerful people in the Horde now. Who else could claim that? No one. Certainly not Adora. 

Shadow Weaver was locked up. Locked up and helpless, forced to acknowledge Catra’s superiority. Catra had everything and Shadow Weaver was a lowly prisoner, doomed to spend her life on the other end of Catra’s insults. The tables had turned. Everything was finally right in the world. 

But why, when she held those things in her hands, did they feel like nothing at all? Weightless. Hollow. Dust that would blow away in a heavy wind. 

She swore that this was what she wanted. Power. Control. Those were the only things that had ever lasted in Catra’s life, after all. The only eternal things. What more could she possibly want?

But they didn’t feel eternal right now, to Catra. They felt like they would wash away in high tide. 

But Adora wouldn't. Adora wouldn’t wash away. No matter how she tried to forget, to move on, Adora’s absence still held weight. It was like she was there, always, perched on her shoulders. Tied to her feet. Bound to her wrists. 

She could feel Adora watching her with every stupid rebel village she conquered. Judging her. Wishing that she would change, that she would  stop. 

Well, she could keep watching. Catra wasn’t going to change and Adora and her precious rebels were going to  lose. 

She had tried everything. Really, she had. She had left Adora dangling off a cliff. She had tried to obliterate the rebellion—and She-Ra’s memory right alongside it—and even that hadn’t held. 

She had even tried to find new friends: Scorpia and Entrapta, though she kept them at arm’s length. Catra wouldn’t allow history to repeat. Scorpia, at least, was low-effort to please, and it’d been all too easy to convince Entrapta that the other princesses had abandoned her. Because they had. They’d abandoned Entrapta, just as Adora had abandoned Catra. 

The nightmares had been back for a while now. The darkness. The complete loneliness. The knowledge that no one was coming and that no one cared. It tore at her like the jaws of some wild animal. 

Most nights, she’d wake up gasping. Other nights, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Each time she’d clasp her hands around her face, claws digging into her skull, and wonder desperately when it would end.

When, when,  when would she stop feeling like this? She had tried so hard, so ferociously, to feel something—anything—but this. She wanted to feel proud. She wanted to feel strong. But if anything, she felt weaker than ever.

And though she took great care to smother it every night, there was a part of her—a part of her that spoke with Adora’s voice and watched with Adora’s eyes—that felt ashamed. Ashamed of the blood crusted beneath her nails. Ashamed of the ashes left in her army’s wake. Because it was her army, after all. She was barely eighteen years old and ordering others to kill. 

What was she doing? God, what was she  doing? 

She wanted to be someone else. She wanted to claw herself out of her own skin, leave the Horde, leave Etheria, leave her own mind, even, if it would only grant her silence. If only it would grant her peace. 

She wished she had been born a princess. Maybe then, someone would have cared. Maybe then, she would have been worth something. 

But instead, she felt like a broken hourglass. No past. No future. No purpose.

* * *

##  strings

Shadow Weaver always knew. She always knew how to crawl her way into Catra’s head. How to yank on Catra’s heartstrings. 

And so she did it. She yanked and yanked, the plucking of those strings so loud, louder than the voice in Catra’s head. The one that screamed the truth, screamed it constantly, the worst truth Catra had ever known:

That Shadow Weaver wanted her dead. 

But Catra was too vulnerable. Too vulnerable to gentle touches and soothing words. She should have cut off her ears long ago, if only to keep herself from hearing another lie from someone who claimed to care about her. 

To be proud of herself—that was never enough for Catra. She wanted Shadow Weaver’s pride, too. Pride from the one person who had refused to give it. The one person who would  always refuse to give it, because Adora was better. Adora had always been better. 

Shadow Weaver always knew, but Catra...Catra should have known better. 

Betrayal was swift to come. Panic was slow to rise. But neither was anything new. 

* * *

##  moments

There were moments, Catra thinks, where she could have been happy, had she been someone else. Someone better. 

Scorpia had placed all of her hopes on Catra’s shoulders. Hopes of friendship, true friendship, or maybe even hopes of something more. But Catra wouldn’t carry them.  Couldn’t carry them. She had walked that path before. And all she had managed to do was stumble—scrape her knees and palms bloody, with no one around to help her back up.

She considered it, though. Once. In the Crimson Waste. Where for a moment, she imagined she belonged. Where for a moment, she had power. A power separate from anything the Horde could give. A power independent of that which she sought, through victory over Adora, over She-Ra.

In the Crimson Waste, the strong made the rules. And boy, was Catra strong. People had torn her apart so many times, she’d pulled herself together with cables of steel. 

In the Crimson Waste, they worshipped the mean. The cruel. Catra was a mirror for cruelty. No—a magnifying glass. Every awful thing ever done to her, she could send right back into the world tenfold. 

At first, she hadn’t even considered it. Staying. Despite the way she found herself laughing. Or enjoying the ridiculous party the gangs threw for her. Or even finding comfort in Scorpia’s company—her unwavering loyalty and good humor. She had just captured Adora. She had just secured the Sword of Protection. She had a one-way ticket back into Hordak’s good graces, if that sword was as dangerous as that hologram  claimed —

“This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you,” said Scorpia. “Scratch that. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you happy, period. So why would we go back? Let’s stay here. Forget Hordak. Forget Adora. Forget all of them.”

Catra felt her cheeks burn. If only it were so easy. 

But she’ll admit—that was the longest stretch of time Catra had gone without thinking about her. About Adora. There, in the Crimson Waste, she had temporarily forgotten herself. Until Adora had actually arrived, Catra hadn’t even spared her a thought. 

It was liberating, she supposed. But maybe she didn’t know the meaning of the word. Was liberation meant to feel like this? Lonely, but at peace? Was there even a word for such a thing? 

“We could rule the Crimson Waste together, just the two of us.”

Catra’ cheeks burned ever-brighter. Scorpia wanted them to stay here—just the two of them. Stay in the Crimson Waste. Together. 

“We could, you know...be happy.”

She tried to picture it. Catra and Scorpia, rulers of the Crimson Waste. Side by side. Friends. Maybe even something more. 

Catra liked Scorpia. She really did, no matter how much she lashed out. She was pretty, too—Scorpia. Not that Catra had ever really thought about it before. 

But when she thought about it—about them, ruling this place together—all she could picture was another face. A mouth that always lied. A pair of eyes that judged her endlessly. 

But still, it hung there. A banner in her mind, too high above her reach. Too high to yank down and set aflame, like she wanted to. 

“I have to go check on the prisoner,” Catra replied stiffly. 

She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say her name. Not then, not in front of Scorpia. Catra was too humiliated with herself, with the absurd thoughts and memories she had allowed to invade her mind, if only for a moment.

She could feel Scorpia’s eyes on her back. Boring into her jacket. Pleading eyes, hopeful eyes. Eyes that Catra could not satisfy. Not without losing the one thing that meant anything to her, the one thing that had always hurt her the most. 

She was humiliated that she had even considered Scorpia’s offer. She was humiliated that she had rejected it too. Catra was swimming in confusion—in delusion. And worst of all, she was walking right back toward the dejection she cursed every night. 

If she had been someone else, someone better, she would have accepted. She would have accepted and been happy. There, in the Crimson Waste, she could have finally learned to move on. 

But she didn’t.

* * *

##  future

“Where do you wanna go first?” Adora asked. 

They were young, then. All toddler pudge and scraped knees. But the roof was still theirs. The sky—or whatever could be seen beyond the smog—still belonged to them. 

Adora had pressed herself tightly against Catra’s side. She was smiling too, and a missing front tooth winked at Catra from where her lips parted. 

Catra can’t remember who took the other’s hand. Maybe it was Adora who reached out first. Maybe it was Catra. Though it wouldn’t have mattered, back then. Back when there was nothing to ask, nothing to question. No blame to place and no battles to fight. Just them and the sky and the future, a future that promised each other’s company, if nothing else. 

Catra frowned in confusion. “What d’you mean?”

“After it’s over,” Adora said. “After we win the war. We’ll have to do something, after that. Go someplace.”

Catra hadn’t given it much thought. But she was warm and drowsy there, clinging to Adora’s hand, head drooping onto Adora’s shoulder. 

“Why can’t we just stay here?” Catra asked. She couldn’t imagine a wider world, or a warmer one. 

* * *

##  weapon

“Shadow Weaver is in Bright Moon,” Adora told her. As if it were obvious. As if Catra should have known from the start. 

And of course she should have known. Of course that was the first place Shadow Weaver had gone, after escaping. To Bright Moon. To the rebellion. To her precious Adora. 

Shadow Weaver had escaped to find Adora. Escaped, despite full knowledge of the consequences. She knew that Catra would be punished—would even be executed—once Hordak discovered Shadow Weaver’s disappearance. 

Yes, Catra had been exiled rather than killed. But Shadow Weaver couldn’t have known that—couldn’t have anticipated Entrapta’s intervention. Which means that Shadow Weaver had finally done it. Had finally acted on that implicit promise, on that ever-looming threat. 

Shadow Weaver had tried to kill Catra. Had tried to kill her without a second thought, just as Catra always feared she would. But in all her imaginings, in all her nightmares, Catra had never expected that Shadow Weaver would do it with Adora’s blessing. 

Adora. Adora, who already had everything. Adora, who just wouldn’t go away, who wouldn’t leave Catra’s fucking head, who had taken everything, everything that mattered, everything that could have  ever mattered—

The thought of them was like a hot poker. A hot poker in Catra’s brain, in her chest, plunged deeply into every nerve she had. Adora had defected. Shadow Weaver had defected. They were gone, gone,  gone —together in Bright Moon, idling their days away. Happily reminiscing about all the funny lies they’ve told Catra over the years. There were so many to choose from, after all. Some real doozies. Some real  hoots that they could laugh about with each other. 

There was a feeling, then. A heaving in Catra’s chest—the snapping of some invisible rope. Did they do it together, Catra wondered? Did Adora conspire to kill Catra through Shadow Weaver’s escape? Catra had always known what Shadow Weaver wanted—had always acknowledged the death threat in her periphery. 

But had Adora? Had she known? Had she let it happen? 

Catra tried to search Adora’s eyes for something. Innocence, maybe. Or guilt. Some indicator of culpability, or lack thereof. But there was only that appealing gaze, the glaze of fearful tears. 

More than anything, Adora wanted Catra to  listen.  That much was clear. But Catra was finished listening to liars and cheats. No matter how soft their voices. No matter how warm their hands, or how gentle their touches. It was all fake—a weapon like any other, poised to stab her when she least expected it. 

Catra was finished with them, the both of them, but she wasn’t by any means  finished.  She was here. She was alive. Shadow Weaver had failed, and now Catra would spend every remaining breath she had tearing the rebellion apart—tearing She-Ra apart—and then she would come for Shadow Weaver, too. She would make Shadow Weaver wish that she had never, ever,  ever raised a hand to Catra. 

Adora said something about a portal. A dangerous one, one that couldn’t be allowed to be opened. One that Shadow Weaver was also trying to prevent.

Good, Catra thought. Perfect. She’d decimate two birds with one stone—Adora and Shadow Weaver both—by opening a single, measly portal. 

“We’ll all lose if Hordak opens his portal machine,” Adora insisted, arms bound behind her back. Eyes pleading. Body straining helplessly. Her hair was askew, a couple unruly strands hanging limply from their usual poof. 

She must have been thrashing quite a bit if they managed to escape from what Catra knew held them in place. Clips and hairspray and hair ties. Adora had always obsessed too much over her hair. 

But right then, Adora hadn’t seemed to care. She was too afraid. Afraid of the portal. Afraid of what would happen if Catra gave Hordak that glinting parasite of a sword. 

We’ll all lose. 

That was what Adora had said. That they’d all lose. As if Adora, of all people, had ever understood a damn thing about losing. 

But she would. If Catra had any say at all, any breath left in her tortured lungs, she would  make her understand. 

* * *

##  portal

It was all a blur, after that. 

Though there were parts she remembered. Parts as clear as the sky—the horizon—on a bright day. Parts that she wouldn’t be able to forget if she tried. 

The sting of Shadow Weaver’s magic on Catra’s skin. Those writhing shadows Catra had always despised, wrapped around her body like some terrible snake. Twisting, tightening,  squeezing Catra’s body to the point of collapse. 

She couldn’t gulp down a single breath. She couldn’t feel anything but the cry of her nerves, the strain of her body as she tried in vain to keep her bones from shattering beneath the pressure of that animate darkness. But she could already feel it—a faultline threatening to fracture her spine, her arms, her legs. 

Shadow Weaver was finally going to do it. She was going to stand there, hand-in-hand with a princess—the very princess Catra had once saved—and break Catra into pieces. 

But then, inexplicably, it stopped. The magic dissipated with a hiss and Catra dropped to the cold metal floor. She didn’t know what had happened, what had changed to keep her alive, but Catra didn’t care to find out. Rage and disbelief were quick to swarm her mind. Her eyes were barely working, but she saw a weapon nearby, on the floor. 

Catra would kill her. Catra would blast Shadow Weaver apart—

But someone stopped her. Someone dragged her away. The weapon was in her hand—she had managed to grab hold of it—but she hadn’t been given the chance to fire.

And then she was in another room. She was in another room, yes, but the pain had followed her there. Her whole body trembled like a house on the verge of collapse. And her breathing…it still wasn’t right. Darkness speckled her vision and no matter how much she blinked, she couldn’t make it go away. 

And then Entrapta was there, too. Entrapta said that they couldn’t do it. That they couldn’t open the portal. Catra didn’t hear most of it, but there were a few words that Catra remembered. Three of them, to be precise.

“Adora was right.”

Catra laughed. A hollow, gasping laugh. It was funny, so funny. Of course Adora had been right. She was always right. Adora could be a princess, and have friends, and save the world. She could have all of those things, all the things she wanted, if only Catra would just die like she was meant to, crushed like a newspaper in Shadow Weaver’s hand. 

Enough, Catra thought. She’d had enough with traitors, with liars, with people pretending to care.

So Catra turned her weapon on Entrapta and fired. 

What was Entrapta, anyway, except a useless princess? Catra was surrounded by them. Surrounded by freaks. Princesses and witches and aliens. She wanted to be free of them all, wanted to tear them from the fabric of the world she knew. 

And the portal—the portal would do exactly that.

Scorpia stared at her in horror. Words were leaving Catra’s mouth faster than she could think them.  Send Entrapta to Beast Island, she told someone. Scorpia, she thinks. But maybe it was someone else.

Scorpia had been the one to protest, though. And Catra wouldn’t have that. She wouldn’t have another traitor in her midst.

That was her shield—that crackle of electricity. And she had to protect herself from everyone. 

They were all trying to stop her. The portal was hers, and she was going to have it. Whatever it had in store for her—storms, fire, earthquakes—she could  take it. It didn’t matter what it did to her, to everyone, so long as it finished the rebellion and the liars it called heroes. 

She could feel Adora’s eyes on her as she entered Hordak’s sanctum. Good. She wanted Adora to watch this. She wanted Adora to know how it felt—how it felt to have her world upended by one awful, inconsiderate decision. It was only fair. That was all Catra wanted, for once in her life. For something to be fair. 

Adora yelled when Hordak walked toward it—the sword, and the lever that would activate it. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that her friends were coming to rescue her. It didn’t matter that Hordak was too weak, too cowardly to actually pull the switch in time. Catra would do it, even if no one else would. 

“Catra,  please, ” cried Adora’s voice. “Don’t!”

Catra glanced back, her hand hovering over the switch. The one that would turn off the world like a light. 

Adora’s voice was so shrill, so desperate, her entire body pulling against those bindings. Those blue-gray eyes—human eyes, Adora’s eyes—were wide, impossibly wide. The eyes of someone who wanted to look away, but couldn’t. 

Catra was her last hope. Her only hope of keeping that portal closed. 

Good, Catra thought. If this was going to kill them both, at least they’d die doing what they’ve always done best: disappointing each other. 

Catra pulled the switch. And the world exploded in a wave of blinding light.

* * *

##  real

It wasn’t real. Deep down, Catra knew that. 

But did it even matter, if she was happy? 

For a moment, she tasted it. Tasted the life that she’d always wanted. And somehow, it wasn’t what she thought. It wasn’t the Horde, reigning triumphant over Etheria. It wasn’t She-Ra’s sword, flinging over a cliffside. 

It was the curve of Adora’s smile, the shriek of her laughter. A world where she never left. A world where she wouldn’t have even considered an act as cruel—as unforgivable—as leaving Catra behind. 

Broken hearts can’t be mended, but perhaps they could be undone. Undone, like the world they once knew. The portal afforded Catra the only second chance she would ever have. A chance to forget the truth—the magnitude of what she had to lose, and just how easily it could slip from her grasp.

But wasn’t this cheating? Wasn’t this the exact thing she had kept Shadow Weaver from doing, back when she helped Adora escape? A part of her knew...knew what they were...what Adora had left behind—

No.  No. 

Not  back when . There were no past tenses for that world anymore. Only hypotheticals. Only what-ifs.  What if  Adora defected.  What if  she and Catra were enemies, sworn to kill each other. 

It wasn’t worth considering, because it would never happen. 

“Everything’s perfect,” she kept saying. To Adora. To anyone who would listen.

But that...that was a lie still. It was better, yes. It was happier. It was more than Catra thought she’d ever have again. 

But there was still something...something that wasn’t right. A gap in the universe that ached in proclamation of its own absence. 

Catra felt it. And Adora felt it too. 

It wasn’t fair. Why wasn’t this enough for either of them? For Catra, it had to be enough. The other path, it couldn’t be better, it couldn’t  lead to something better than this, this unbroken promise, this hand that cared just enough to hold hers—

But it didn’t matter. Adora was slipping away. Slipping away, just like she always would.

And in a slashing of claws and a light that burned like fire, so was Catra.

* * *

##  fault

“You broke the world. ”

Catra had been shattered into pieces. Her atoms were splitting apart, crumbling away into formless particles of light. 

She wouldn’t accept the blame. She couldn’t. Not when Catra was the one who paid. Not when Adora was still standing, perfect as ever. Untouched by the purple flames that licked across Catra’s whole body, destroying her bit by bit, molecule by molecule. 

Not even Adora’s hair was askew. Adora was intact, perfectly intact, and even when the world was ending, she still had everything. 

It made Catra want to vomit. But she wasn’t sure what organs she still possessed, if any at all. 

When the portal came, Catra hadn’t even been granted oblivion. Everyone else had faded like steam, dissipating into that glowing wall of a void—but not Catra. It had sunk its teeth into her, certainly. It had rended her flesh, stripped a layer of skin and sanity, but she was still here. She was still walking Etheria, or what remained of it. 

But it was over. It was over for her. Over for Etheria. She should have laid down and let the portal take her, just as it was taking the rest of the world. 

“You made me this.”

She’d lost it all not once—but twice. Twice, the world had brought its fist down on Catra’s chest, dissolving the only facsimile of happiness that Catra had ever known.

No. Not the world. Adora. It was Adora who did this, who left Catra twice-destroyed in grief. 

“You took everything from me.”

Adora, who would never stay. No matter what Catra did, no matter how much the world grew or shook or crumbled, Adora would never, ever stay. 

And that final sight of Adora drove her beyond anger, beyond fury. What was Catra now, except a screaming, withering body with which to cause violence, to cast insults, to throw blame? 

And Adora made it too easy. There was nothing she loved more than carrying blame. Catra knew that she’d hoist the entire world onto her shoulders, if she could. That had always been her ambition, after all. To be the lone hero. The selfless sacrifice. 

Adora could take this too, then. Blame for the only thing she’d left in Catra’s possession. 

“You broke the world.”

They were the last words Catra would ever say, and still, Adora did not understand them. Adora thought she was talking about the portal. About Etheria. About the planet all around them, breaking its way into nonexistence. The backwards gravity and the black hole, bearing down on them. 

“I didn’t make you pull the switch!” Adora said, yelling over that awful rumbling—the sound of the sky turning inside out. “I didn’t make you do  anything!” 

But that wasn’t what Catra meant. Catra knew the cost when she’d pulled that switch. She knew that she’d brought the world to its knees—to its grave. But this wasn’t about the portal, or the planet. 

It was about Adora. It was about  them.  About the space they once occupied, together. Their kingdom on the Horde’s rooftops, the stretch of Adora’s cot in the old barracks. It was gone, all of it. Gone forever. That world was broken beyond repair, and Catra had never been given a say. 

And even when Adora  did manage to close the portal, when Etheria was restored to the laws of space and time, their world wouldn’t be. It would stay broken. 

Catra had crossed the line, yes. Catra had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. But so had Adora twice over. And she knew, finally, that She-Ra could feel. Because for the first time, she saw hatred in those eyes. Hatred for Catra above all others, just like she always feared. 

“You broke the world, and it’s all your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I'm really sorry about how many notifs people might have gotten about this chapter. ao3 literally would not let this fic show up as updated in the she-ra index. i waited almost two hours for it to appear and it simply wouldn't. I had to repost it twice and I ended up posting chapter 3 by accident when I was still editing it. I'm really sorry and I know those notifs were probably pretty obnoxious
> 
> Regardless, if you're enjoying this fic, please drop me a comment! they're how I improve my writing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand....we're finally getting to the mixture of canon and post-canon. 
> 
> if you want to completely torment yourself...write a fic in which you start switching tenses every couple thousand words. Y'know. Like this one. Because switching tenses between past and present is the devil's work. 
> 
> Anyway, I would love, love, _love_ , if I could **please get some more comments on this fic**. This is probably the most experimental form of fanfic I've ever approached and I am literally DESPERATE for feedback.

#  iii. 

##  maw

This one was always strange. A memory in a nightmare, a nightmare in a memory. 

She’d outgrown the old nightmare, she supposed. It was only a matter of time. Children never know what’s truly worth fearing. But with every passing day, Catra collected more material for her own nightmares. More sources of grief, and guilt, and emptiness. 

The new dream was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Nothing she hadn’t seen, because she had lived it. 

She saw Entrapta, and the weapon in her hand. The crackle of green electricity, and Entrapta’s unconscious body falling to the floor. Scorpia’s horror. Threats upon threats, an order to send Entrapta away—to Beast Island. One that was immediately carried out. 

She’d find herself staring at Entrapta, then. Or another version of Entrapta, an Entrapta who watched, stunned, as her own body was dragged off to certain death. 

When Entrapta’s gaze found Catra, still holding that weapon—the instrument of her betrayal—something seemed to buckle within them both. 

“What did you do to me?” came Entrapta’s voice, quiet and disbelieving. 

But then Entrapta was gone. And in her absence came the portal. That gaping tear in the universe, the maw of some terrible, gasping beast. A beast that wanted to consume everything, everyone, in one enormous gulp. 

And then _she_ was there, standing before the portal. She-Ra. 

No, not She-ra. Adora. It was Adora without a doubt, looking the same as she always did. But she was standing taller, her face alight with fury. 

“Why did you do it?” Adora always demanded in a voice of pure disgust. 

Catra couldn’t meet her eyes. Eyes that refused to forgive, to forget. Eyes that knew exactly what Catra had done. Worse, what Catra actually wanted. But Adora didn’t care. Not anymore. 

And then Adora was gone, vanished in a flash of gold and red, and the portal was pulling, _pulling_ Catra toward that blinding wound in time and space, that grinning mouth of destruction— 

And then Catra would wake in bed, gasping for air she knew she did not deserve. 

Maybe, she thought…maybe it was time to stop sleeping again. 

* * *

##  why

“Why did you do it?” 

Adora asks the question into the back of Catra’s neck. And Catra can feel it—the way Adora’s lips form each and every word as she whispers them. Her voice is achingly quiet. So quiet that, if her hearing wasn’t so well-attuned, Catra might have missed the question entirely. 

She doesn’t know what time it is. They’ve been drowsing like this for hours, attempting to relax their way to sleep, but it’s not easy. There’s always too much light here, in Bright Moon. However much the sun sets, however much they pull the curtains closed, it’s never completely dark. The moonlight always seeps inside—stabbing pure silver into their exhausted eyes. 

“The portal, I mean. Why’d you open it?” 

Adora is slowly tracing patterns now, along Catra’s skin. Outlining the darker stretches of hair on her arms with the tips of her fingers. 

There’s no malice in the question. No accusation. Just curiosity. And maybe, if Catra spends too much time dwelling on it, just the barest edge of hurt. 

She stops Adora’s hand mid-trace and brings it to her lips. “It’s late,” Catra murmurs against Adora’s fingertips. “Why are you wondering this now?” 

There's a beat. A beat of hesitation from Adora. And then she says: “It’s the worst memory I have of you." 

They’re both silent after that. Silent for too long. And Catra knows they’re both lost in it—that moment when Catra pulled that switch. The way she threw that lever down, like an executioner dropping the axe. Adora’s scream. The monster Catra became, the blame that she threw, and the disaster that nearly was. 

Catra cries much more easily than she used to. She was so stupid once, for taking so much pride in it—in almost never crying. But that was before she knew how many different types of tears there were, beyond sadness and fear. Tears of joy. Tears of laughter. And tears of shame. 

The shame comes easily. But the words...those are harder to form, harder to arrange. 

“There’s a certain place you reach,” Catra says finally, “when there’s just so much screaming in your head—all this loneliness and anger and rejection. You start to think that you’re invincible, or untouchable. That nothing can hurt more than you already have.” 

Catra tries to be gentle as she releases Adora’s hand. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s pulling away—like she’s trying to avoid Adora, or the question. If anything, she’s doing the opposite. Trying to be open—to be fair. To look her worst self in the eye and understand why, exactly, she did such awful things to this world…and to the person she loves most. 

She just needs her own hand, is all. For this. To scrub the dampness from her eyes. To clutch at something too tightly without it being painful to someone else. 

“And then you start to think something worse,” Catra continues, struggling to keep the misery—the self-loathing—out of her own voice. “That it’s okay to be selfish. To be cruel. Because you’re only doing what’s fair. Because you’re only returning the favor.” 

It’s been a long time since she’s cried like this. She should have remembered how difficult it is to talk beneath such a heavy cascade of water, or such a violent warmth in her cheeks. 

But she _will_ explain this. She’ll put these buried feelings—that old broken box, that sick and deadly part of her heart—where they belong. Here, between them. Or out there, for the world to judge. Wherever Adora sees fit. 

She owes that. To Adora. And to everyone else, too. 

“All my life, the world had hurt me,” Catra says. “And in that moment—that stupid, ridiculously selfish moment—all I wanted to do was hurt it back. And so I did.” 

She wishes it were more profound than that. That she had a better excuse than this cliche—this hackneyed claim that only hurt creatures hurt other creatures in turn. But it was all she had. The only truth she knew about herself, about what happened. 

The room falls silent again—silent, save the ticking of a clock, somewhere in the distance. Catra strains her ears to listen to that noise, to measure it against the heartbeat that thrums in her ears. 

Adora says nothing for a while. And then— 

“Was it the world that hurt you…or was it me?” 

Catra considers for a moment, then laughs softly. “I don’t think there was any difference, back then. When you know only one good thing, it’s the only thing that matters. And it’s also the only thing that can really hurt you, when it’s gone.” 

There’s more dampness now, on the back of Catra’s neck. It seems that Adora has been crying as well. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora whispers, in a fractured sort of voice. 

Catra knew this was coming, though. Knew that Adora would try to accept the blame for this, try to hoist the enormous world of Catra’s mistakes onto her own shoulders. But Catra won’t let her. Not for this. Not for anything ever again. 

Catra rolls over, disentangling herself from Adora’s arms until they’re chest-to-chest, face-to-face, staring across the same pillow. 

“No. You’re not,” Catra says. “You’re not allowed to be sorry for this.” 

“But Catra—” Adora’s lips part in protest, but Catra lifts a finger to silence them. 

“This is mine, okay?” she tells her. “My mistake. My screw up.” 

“But if I hadn’t left—” 

Oh, and what a world would it be, if Adora hadn’t left. A Hordak-controlled Etheria, maybe. A wasteland of orphans and pollution. Or maybe Horde Prime would’ve arrived some other way to destroy the universe, with no one—especially not She-Ra—standing in his way. 

“Adora, you were right to leave. You always were.” 

Catra layers a hand along Adora’s cheek, cupping it gently—pressing a warm palm against the damp chill of Adora’s tears. 

“I was the one who did something wrong,” Catra continues. “I let pain turn me into something awful, something unwilling to change. And all you ever did was try to stop me—to find the good in me.” 

And then, with her lightest brush of fingertips, she tips Adora’s chin upward. Upward, in the hope of keeping their gazes parallel and honest. Because she wants Adora to remember this. To remember this, and believe it too. 

“I think I know the difference, now,” Catra says, gliding a thumb across Adora’s jaw. “The difference between feeling deserving of love, and feeling like you’re owed it. You don’t owe me love. No one does. But I want you to know that if you did it again—if you walked out that door without me, and asked to never see me again—I would do it this time. I would let you go without a fight. Even if it broke my heart.” 

Adora chokes down something like a sob, though it’s more indignant. “But I wouldn’t—” 

“But you _could,_ if you wanted to,” Catra says. “That’s all I’m saying. All those awful things I did—they can’t be undone, and they can’t be excused. All I can do is promise. Promise to never do them again. Promise to know better. To be better.” 

They’re still crying—the both of them—staining the pillow with what seems to be an endless flow of tears. 

Catra leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. And she wonders what her old self would think of this—this image of them, lying in the same bed and crying side-by-side. Would she think herself weak? Vulnerable? 

Or would she stop deluding herself, and count herself lucky beyond all compare? 

* * *

##  strike

What was there left to hope for, except winning the war? 

That was what Catra told herself, anyway. There was no going back. Even if it hadn’t been her intention, she had dealt a crippling blow to the rebellion. Queen Angella was gone. Bright Moon was devastated. They were so close, so close, and all they had to was reach a little farther—strike a little harder. 

Nothing else was going to get in her way. Not Hordak’s continued cowardice. Not Scorpia’s pleading that they rescue Entrapta. No going back, no looking back. 

She had power. She had control. Now all she needed was victory, and then it would be over. There’d be nothing left to seek, nothing left to prove, nothing left to take. 

There was an even bigger Horde army out there, somewhere. One that was would put an end to the rebellion once and for all. 

But she didn’t want a group of strangers to arrive and finish this battle for her. These were her enemies. Her fights. 

If Hordak’s descriptions were accurate, Horde Prime could lay waste to Etheria in an instant. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to win—to prove that she was better, that she was stronger. And she’d have to do it before Horde Prime arrived, lest her triumph be swept out from under her. 

When the rebellion would finally fall, Catra knew exactly how she wanted it to go. She wanted something epic. A second invasion of Bright Moon, a final confrontation against She-Ra. The ultimate clash of magic and tech, sword and claws, good and evil. 

She didn’t mind saying it anymore, either. That the Horde was evil. She knew it, she’d always known it. And how could she be against it now, when she was responsible for so many of its finest—and cruelest—moments? 

No going back. This was who she was. Who she had proven herself to be. And she wouldn't start apologizing now. 

* * *

##  apologize

“I’m sorry.” 

It feels like that’s all Catra says, these days. Those two little words. Every time they leave her lips, she forces herself to mean them, to understand what she did wrong. It’s almost never easy. Half the time, she doesn’t even have a good reason why. 

And still, she says it to anyone who will listen. Anyone who shoots her a glare of resentment. There’s a lot of them—a lot of people—who watch Catra with endless trepidation, endless disappointment. People who want to see Catra punished for her actions. Thrown into prison. Exiled. Executed. 

“I don’t know what more they want from you,” Adora says angrily as she helps Catra to her feet. Something was thrown at her—a rock, or a brick, or some object of roughly equal weight. She’s gotten quite good at ducking such gifts from angry strangers, but it doesn’t always work. Sometimes it’s just better to let them hit their mark—to let them find the deserving outlet for their rage. Sometimes it’s just healthier to let herself hit the ground. To show them that when she stands, it’s as a better person than when she fell. 

Because Catra deserves it. She really does. And these people who confront her—who blame her—they deserve their anger. 

But Adora is still just a little bit naive. A little bit too forgiving. She claims that Catra more than paid her price—by sacrificing herself for Glimmer, by being tortured and violated by Horde Prime, by risking it all to bring Adora to the Heart. 

And now, by apologizing and helping where she can. 

Catra apologizes to Scorpia first, because Catra knows she treated her the worst. By taking their friendship—and Scorpia’s gentle-heartedness—for granted. By manipulating her, by abusing her, by _using_ her. 

What was she back then, in the Horde, except the things she hated most? A carbon-copy of Shadow Weaver, manipulating those she cared about. 

“I’m sorry,” is how it begins, even though Scorpia has already decided to forgive her. 

But it’s not enough. Catra isn’t finished. She’ll never be finished, never be done making this right. 

She wants Scorpia to know all the things Catra never said. How much she valued Scorpia’s loyalty, her kindness, her sympathy—even when Catra was at her meanest, her cruelest. She tells her that, despite all the terrible words she’s flung, she didn’t mean any of them. Not a single one. 

She searches for a reason. And deep down, she knows it was fear. Fear that Scorpia would leave, just as Adora did. Something that Scorpia swore she wouldn’t do—but something she _should_ have done from the start, and eventually, would need to do. 

She tells Scorpia that she deserved better than Catra. And that she wishes, more than nearly anything, that she had been kinder. That she could take it all back. 

And Scorpia understands. She forgives. Even though a part of Catra doesn’t want her to. A part of Catra thinks that Scorpia should just hate her forever. 

“We were all there, in the Horde,” Scorpia says, smiling softly down at Catra. “You. Me. Adora. It did different things to each of us. Hurt us in different ways. Half the time I can’t believe we made it out—that we made it here. That we managed to make anything good out of ourselves, when the Horde left us so little to work with.” 

She wraps Catra in a hug. “You should be proud, wildcat. You’ve come so far, even if it took you a little longer than the rest of us.” 

Catra cries for hours after Scorpia said that. Cries so hard that Adora bursts into their room in full She-Ra armor and weaponry, prepared to fend off an attacker. And that, if nothing else, turns Catra’s sobs into laughter. 

She apologizes to Mermista too. For Salineas. 

Mermista claims she forgives her, but Catra knows it’s only for Adora’s sake. That the wound will never properly heal—at least not in Catra’s lifetime. But still, she travels there with Entrapta, retrofitting those old Horde bots as instruments of reconstruction rather than destruction. 

Though she doesn’t let the bots do all the work. She spends half her days with her knees sunk deep into the earth, into the sand—even deep in the water, despite how much she hates it. She fills her hours with mortar and bricks, foundations and roofs. 

Sometimes she catches a shimmer of magic and knows that Adora didn’t listen to her. 

“Down!” Catra orders, pointing at the ground. “Put it down!” 

She-Ra swings a metal beam around like it’s a toy, and then—in a truly ridiculous scramble to hide what she’s doing—shoves the whole thing behind her back. Catra resists the urge to laugh. She-Ra may be tall, but she’s definitely not tall enough to hide a sixteen-foot metal beam with nothing but her body. 

Adora only blushes, smiling sheepishly. 

“Put down the beam,” Catra says again. “I mean it, Adora. This is mine. I have to fix this myself.” 

Adora pouts exaggeratedly, still clutching the beam behind her back. “And I can’t help?” 

“Nope,” replies Catra. “Put. The Beam. Down.” 

Adora rolls her eyes but concedes, carefully lowering the metal beam back into the dirt. “But I want to help.” 

“I’m sure She-Ra has better things to do with her time,” Catra says, returning her attention to the freshly-constructed, unpainted wall in front of her. She doesn’t know the first thing about painting. Not yet. But she would make herself learn. 

And then there’s the apology she makes every morning. Every night. Despite how many times Adora asks her to stop. 

Catra hates seeing them. The scars across Adora’s spine...her shoulder blades...her hip bones. Those twisting claw marks, those deep red gouges. The ones that align so perfectly with the sprawl of Catra’s fingertips. 

Catra has a couple scars of her own. A scrape on her back, from being thrust against a cliff-face so hard, fissures spread through the rocks. A missing molar, from a stunningly painful punch to the face that left Catra seeing stars. A few narrow cuts—kisses from the edge of She-Ra’s sword, a sword that rarely aimed to kill but sometimes drew blood. 

But none of them are so deep, so bright, so _visible_ as Adora's. 

“We were enemies,” Adora says seriously, clutching at Catra’s shoulders so that she’s forced to listen—forced to stare Adora in the eye, despite the injuries on the other side. “Enemies on opposite sides of a war. Enemies fight. They hurt each other to win. And that might not have been good—but it was fair.” 

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Catra tells her. And then come the tears, the ones she’s come to know so intimately. “But I thought that making you hurt…somehow, I thought that was better than letting you forget me.” 

Adora sighs as Catra brushes her fingers along a particular set of slashes—ones so deep that she can identify them by touch alone, without even looking at Adora’s back. The ones from the Battle of Bright Moon. She remembers how Adora cried out—how she bled, pools of red blossoming across pristine white fabric. 

Catra enjoyed it, when she made those scars. Catra thought she’d dealt a blow in her own favor. 

But there was nothing favorable about them now. Catra could hardly look at them. At these drawings of her own creation, carved into the skin of the person she loves most. 

The sight makes her want to melt into the bed. Makes her want to dissolve into nothing, to split her own atoms apart, she is so guilty, so outraged with herself. It’s a horrible, indescribable feeling—to hate every fiber of who you once were. To want to smother your past self with a pillow, if only to spare the people you love from the pain you know you’ll cause. 

It's the cruelest unfairness that Catra has ever known—that she can’t go back. That she can’t erase the scars before she makes them . 

* * *

##  fear

Catra had nothing left to fear. Not anymore. 

Certainly not Hordak. Weak, twisted Hordak, whose strength relied only on that which Entrapta gave him. That tiny purple chip, that creaking metal body. These days, when he threatened her, she could only laugh and laugh. It would be easy, so easy, to tear that chip from his chest, to send him tumbling to the floor. 

Because really, what would he do without her? Mope around his sanctum, bemoaning his lost princess while the rebellion rose like a tide against them? No. Catra was the only one with her eye on the prize. Her leadership was all that held the Horde together. 

And one day, she did it. She showed him just how worthless he was, how vulnerable. Perching herself on the silly chair he called a throne, as a taunt. And then, in the flashing of red warning lights, she struck, wrenching that First Ones’ chip from that stupid little holder at his collarbone. There was a sizzle of power, a guttural cry of Hordak’s agony, and he was on his knees. 

It crossed her mind, then. Tossing him out. Allowing herself to take control of the entire Horde, without him. She could do it. 

But that wasn’t the point. Catra couldn’t care less for ruling, really. If she’d wanted that—to rule—she would’ve stayed in the Crimson Waste. 

What she wanted was victory. And she’d need Hordak to achieve that. Only Hordak could design their weapons now that Entrapta was... 

...was gone. 

Whatever. Catra wasn’t afraid of that, either. Of what she’d done to Entrapta. 

But Scorpia kept begging Catra to bring her back—bring Entrapta back. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Rescuing Entrapta would mean admitting she was wrong, and she wasn’t. Catra _wasn’t_ wrong. She couldn’t be because, if she was, it would mean that everything that came before—and everything that came after—was wrong too. 

There was a difference between them, in Catra’s mind. Between being wrong and being evil. And somehow being wrong was worse. 

And where would she be, if she admitted she was wrong? Nothing. No one. The person who sent one of her closest friends to Beast Island? The Horde soldier who tried to destroy the world in a fit of rage? 

That wasn’t...that _wasn’t_ Catra. Even if that was what the world thought, what Scorpia thought—what Adora thought. Catra was doing her best, her absolute best, to matter in some measurement, to carve out some semblance of a life for herself. 

Scorpia was upset, and she knew that. But Catra had no capacity to make her feel better. That wasn’t her job, anyway. To make Scorpia feel better. They weren’t friends. Catra didn’t have friends anymore, because friends were something to be afraid of. 

No matter how much Scorpia reached out, desperate to attach herself to Catra in some significant way, Catra would always refuse. Catra didn’t want friendship. Friends, in Catra’s view, were merely a weakness waiting to become a wound. 

All Catra wanted was for Scorpia to do as she said. For the whole Horde to do as she said. She had a plan. She did. A plan to win. And that was all Catra wanted, after all—to win. 

Winning would make her feel better. Make her feel...she didn’t know. Something like completeness. Like it all wasn’t for nothing. Like she mattered. Like she was always right. Because that was how it worked, after all. The people who win—they decide what’s right and what’s wrong. Who matters, and who doesn’t. 

And Catra wanted everyone to know that she mattered. That she mattered without needing anyone else. 

* * *

##  infiltrate

Double Trouble was the key to ending the rebellion. Catra was certain of it. 

Never before did she have such an opportunity to infiltrate the rebellion. To lay intricate traps that were certain to be sprung. To drive She-Ra and her friends against each other, against themselves, against their best instincts and strategies. 

“This is supposed to be fun,” Double Trouble kept insisting, shooting Catra a wicked grin as they said so. 

At first, Catra didn’t believe them. But then she recognized the power within her own grasp. The power to lay the rebellion low without even throwing a punch. The power to prove without a doubt that friendships didn’t last—that the Horde couldn’t be escaped, couldn’t be overwhelmed. 

She watched Double Trouble transform into She-Ra and laughed. While it was Double Trouble actually there, in Bright Moon, it was like Catra was the one who had infiltrated their ranks. Flutterina might have spoken with Double Trouble’s mouth, but the words that left their lips were of Catra’s arrangement and planning. 

It was easy, too easy, to manipulate the rebels to the point of distraction. By the time Catra and Double Trouble were finished, those princesses were so busy squabbling with another that they failed to notice the army on Salineas’s doorstep—not until it was too late. Not until the populace had been captured, the Sea Gate blasted apart, and the kingdom set aflame. 

Catra was winning. Catra was winning the war. 

And friendships? Love? Those things were crumbling. Those things were fragile. Those things couldn’t hope to survive a war—not a war like this. 

* * *

##  impersonate

It seems impossible, sometimes. Impossible that Catra’s life looks or sounds anything like this. 

But how could she even begin to imagine this? How could she imagine Adora, twirling across the floor in a ridiculously pretty white dress, laughing with an unfathomable sort of joy as Catra catches her in her arms? 

How could she imagine herself surrounded by princesses? Princesses, of all people. Her once-sworn enemy. The antithesis to all she used to know. 

And not just princesses—but princesses who she calls _friends_. Princesses who call Catra a friend in return. Princesses who want to see her safe, to see her happy. Who will protect her if someone tries to harm her, and vice versa. 

How could she ever imagine herself beside Adora nearly every night, enclosed within the same sheets and lying beneath the same jewel-encrusted ceiling? How could she fabricate the sensation of this person she loves—this person who presses searing kisses against her mouth, her neck, her shoulders? 

She feels like she’s impersonating someone else. Someone far luckier, someone far kinder. Someone who deserves this kind of love and friendship. 

Bad people don’t get happy endings. Catra knows that. So how is this possible? How does she hold all these things that she doesn’t deserve? 

Sometimes she wonders, idly, if it’s all a dream. If the war—or maybe even Horde Prime—killed her a long time ago. And all this...all these wonderful, impossible visions of a perfect life that Catra doesn’t deserve...they’re just one long, vivid hallucination. The result of Catra’s brain kicking into overdrive before it fizzles out. 

She wonders, then, if only the adrenaline could produce something so incredibly lovely, so intricate. Something so beyond the power of Catra’s most creative fantasizing. 

But then Adora is there, slipping a pair of arms around Catra’s waist, planting kisses that feel like smiles on Catra’s cheeks—and all she knows is that it has to be real. That only real life and all its statistical improbabilities could produce a result so absurd, so unlikely, so beyond anything Catra could have wanted or pictured for herself. 

* * *

##  winning

Catra was winning. She was winning, finally. 

She’d conquered most of the rebellion now. Elberon. Thaymor. Alwyn. Salineas. They all belonged to the Horde now. And soon, so would Bright Moon. 

But why didn’t it _feel_ like anything? There should be something here, at the finish line. Something that she could hold in her arms—hoist above her head. 

But it wasn’t like that. She wasn’t crushing the rebellion within a fist, like she thought she would be. No. It was something else entirely—like catching smoke in bottles. Vaporous, formless smoke. Smoke that she couldn’t hold, couldn’t touch, couldn’t feel—no matter how much her hand climbed around that bottle, searching fruitlessly for something solid. 

Why couldn’t she sleep? Why couldn’t she breathe in a way that felt natural, that felt smooth? Every inch of her felt like it was covered in fissures, in splinters, in stone that would shatter under the barest touch. 

They were afraid of her. And she didn’t just mean the rebellion. The Horde was afraid of her too. Whenever she entered a room, soldiers affixed their eyes to the floor—hunched their shoulders to make themselves smaller in her eyes. Even Scorpia’s eagerness around Catra had disappeared. She only looked at Catra with hesitancy, with mistrust—with fear. 

That should’ve pleased her. That should’ve made her feel strong, feel powerful. But none of them would talk to her. They all avoided her eyes, her gaze, her notice. And that made her notice them all the more. Made her lash out, demanding their attention and even more of their fear, because there was nothing else they could give her. 

There had to be something more. Something more than this. Something that mattered, something that felt solid in her arms, in her ribcage. 

But there was nothing there. Nothing but smoke. 

* * *

##  left

“You’re a bad friend.” 

Catra had watched hours upon hours of surveillance videos, searching for Scorpia’s figure between the trees, between the shattered rebel buildings. She watched and watched until there was static burned into her eyelids and circles like bruises beneath both eyes. 

She’d smashed the screens to shards, ones that cut her fists as she pulverized them. 

She’d picked up Scorpia’s note from the floor, just so she could rend it to pieces with her claws. 

But still she remembered it, even when it was gone. She’d remember it forever. The disappointment contained within that messy scrawl. The declaration of where Scorpia was going, and where she would never return again. 

Catra had thrown Lonnie against a wall, demanding to know whether people were laughing at her. Surely they all knew what had happened. That Scorpia had left. That Catra was slipping—losing it, losing everyone. 

Lonnie had said that people were just tired, but Catra hadn’t cared. They didn’t know the meaning of that word, _tired._ They were all so weak, but Catra was strong. She had to be stronger than this, stronger than all of them—strong enough to win, to destroy the rebellion and She-Ra and…and win. Because winning still mattered, somehow. It still mattered more than everything else. Double Trouble had told her to send her troops out, that Bright Moon was undefended and that they could win, _now,_ if only they struck as soon as possible. 

She’d almost clawed Lonnie’s eyes out, too, sometime later. For saying something about—about Scorpia, she thought...something that she...something she couldn’t remember, not anymore. But then Kyle had thrown himself between them, arms outstretched. It was the bravest—and stupidest—move he’d ever made. 

“We used to be your friends,” he’d said, the hurt plain in his voice. “Why are you treating us like this?” 

But he’d been wrong. They weren’t friends. They had _never_ been friends. Adora’s friends, maybe, but they’d been Catra’s bullies. Catra didn’t matter to them. She never had. She’d never mattered to anyone. Not Adora, not Shadow Weaver, not Entrapta, not Lonnie, not Kyle, not Rogelio— 

_No one_ cared. Not even Scorpia. Scorpia, who was gone now. Who’d promised she’d always be there, _always_ be there, no matter what happened or however much Catra lashed out at her— 

And now there was this. This scorching beam of red light, detonating holes throughout the Fright Zone, trying, desperately, to blast Catra’s heart from her body, or her head from her shoulders. Hordak’s latest weapon, turned against her. 

“I know about Entrapta,” Hordak said. And that was when Catra knew the truth. That there was nothing left. No one left. 

“I...trusted you,” Hordak growled. 

And then she was leaping, jumping, rolling—scrambling out of the room, out of the range of that explosive weapon, that incandescent beam of destruction. Walls sprung apart all around her, pillars collapsed, dust fell like rain and fires rose like mountains. 

He was trying to kill her. Kill her, for Entrapta. For a _princess._ The world had truly lost its mind. 

“Your days were numbered the moment you crossed me.” 

Catra nearly laughed at that one, but she was too busy running. How blind he must have been, to never realize that her days had been numbered since long before that—since she’d been a small child, staring Shadow Weaver’s hatred in the face. Did he really think he scared her? Him, with his ridiculous attachment to a stupid princess? Him, with a body dependent on a First Ones’ chip to even _stand?_

Sure, she wasn’t stupid enough to stand there and let him blast her apart—but she wasn’t stupid enough to fear him, either. 

They were two of a kind, Catra and Hordak. Angry. Alone. Seeking control of a world that wanted nothing more than their pain, their destruction. No one cared about either of them. And she would make sure he knew it, that he _understood_ just how alike they were— 

“Why would Horde Prime care about you?” she snarled. “You’re a defect. A mistake!” 

He raised his weapon, but Catra was already moving beyond the flames. She jumped, slid, leapt into the air, swiping a punch against Hordak’s face, flipping so that she could raise her leg into the perfect position, balanced perfectly above him, above the weapon— 

She brought her foot down, and the blaster shattered into useless fragments of metal. 

With another kick, he was on the ground. On his knees. Face-down, on the floor. Just like before. Just like she’d tried to show him. But he hadn’t been paying attention. He hadn’t _understood_ who she was, what she could do. And now he’d pay for it. 

“Now we can finally end this,” Catra said, her whole body tense as a coiled spring. She could feel it building—her outrage, her disgust, her disbelief. It swarmed her like something vicious, something alive. Something that she needed to destroy at all costs, lest it destroy her first. 

Hordak was stumbling to his feet. 

Good. Catra needed a target. He was the last one, after all. The last person she’d placed her hopes in. And the last person she would let betray her. 

“I didn’t _need_ Entrapta!” she screamed. Her voice was scraped. Raw. Rasping in the dust and the debris, but that didn’t stop her. “I didn’t need Adora, or Scorpia! And I don’t—need—you!” 

She punctuated the last word with a lunge, both claws out. And within moments, the purple chip was clutched between her fingers. 

Electricity pulsed from where she had removed the chip. He stared at her, hunched over—eyes filled with loathing as his body continued to weaken. 

And then there was a sound from above them. A creaking. A shaking. He looked up and so did she—but it was too late. A metal fixture on the ceiling had detached itself, and it crashed down upon him—upon Hordak, crushing him beneath its weight. 

And Catra could only cover her eyes as a cloud of dust sped toward her. 

* * *

##  problem

“Hey, Catra.” 

Catra couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe that she was right there—Adora—standing behind her, examining the wreckage around them both. The ruins of the Fright Zone. The splintered remains of their forge. And Hordak only a few feet away, crushed beneath a pile of debris. 

Adora looked perfect as ever. Smirking. Gloating. Catra couldn’t stand it. She could hardly breathe in all this smoke, all this dust. She was scraped and tired and unprepared to fight any more than she already had. If she battled She-Ra now, she would lose—and she couldn’t do that. She _couldn’t lose._ Because if she did— 

“No,” Catra said, scrunching her eyes tightly shut. As if she could blink Adora away. Blink her away like some sort of dream. 

But it didn’t work. When Catra opened her eyes, Adora was still there. 

“You can’t do this,” Catra cried, willing the tears to stay in her eyes. But they kept threatening to spill out. Kept threatening to reveal just how desperate she felt. “You can’t come in and take this from me now!” 

Adora’s eyes widened, but her amusement didn’t fade. If anything, Catra’s outburst made her all the more gleeful. 

“Whoa,” Adora said. “I knew this would get a rise out of you, but still. You really are obsessed, aren’t you... _kitten?”_

Catra froze on the last word. The way she said it—the taunting lilt, the brazen posture. She knew those mannerisms. And they weren’t Adora’s. 

Double Trouble laughed as they transformed back into their usual appearance, wiping Adora’s face away beneath a layer of bubbling darkness. Catra stared, dumbstruck. It didn’t make sense. Why was Double Trouble imitating Adora? What purpose did that serve? They were wasting time, wasting resources, and they still needed to defeat the rebellion— 

“You know,” Double Trouble continued casually, as if they had all the time in the world, “it took me a while, but I finally figured out your character.” 

More bubbling darkness, and then Catra was staring at a reflection of herself. She knew those mismatched eyes. Those cheeks dotted with freckles. That too-scrawny body. The ears she sometimes despised, they were so large on the sides of her head. 

But no, this was not her reflection. This was Double Trouble, pretending to be Catra. Smirking down at her with the same gloating expression that Adora had worn only moments before. 

And then they began to circle her. Like a predator. No—more like a vulture, ready to pick Catra clean like the heartless, breathless thing she was. 

“You try _so hard_ to be the big bad villain,” they said, “but your heart’s never been in it, has it?” 

They stared at her expectantly, daring her to challenge them. But she couldn’t. She _wouldn’t._ She didn’t even know what was happening, why they were saying these things— 

“Stop!” Catra cried. “Stop it!” 

She swiped at them, but it was a pathetic, desperate attempt. Even Catra could see that. Double Trouble dodged her easily, snatching her wrist out of the air and wrapping it tightly within their grasp. 

Catra pulled and pulled, but she couldn’t tear her hand away. Couldn’t _look_ away. Their grip was a shackle, and Catra was trapped. 

“People have hurt you, haven’t they?” 

Catra didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to look or listen. But no matter how much Catra tried to back away, Double Trouble refused to let go—refused to stop following her. They were determined that Catra look herself in the eye. 

And then the transformations came, one after the other. 

Shadow Weaver was first, bearing down upon Catra in the way she'd always feared. Her voice rumbled softly beneath the crackle of the flames. 

“They didn’t believe in you.” 

Next, Hordak. Hordak, who lay only a few feet away from them both, who Catra had been forced to nearly destroy, he had been so intent on killing her. 

“They didn’t trust you.” 

And then, Adora. Pretty, perfect Adora, smiling at Catra like she _wanted_ her. Wanted Catra. Loved her, even. Smiling in the way Adora—the real Adora—never, ever would. 

“Didn’t need you,” Double Trouble said, in Adora’s voice, as they grabbed Catra’s hand and pressed it to Adora’s cheek. All Catra could do was gape, frozen at the contact, utterly brain-addled by the warmth beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she’d feel again— 

But no, it wasn’t Adora’s cheek. It was Double Trouble’s. It was Double Trouble’s cheek, and Adora was somewhere else, somewhere far away— 

Catra flung herself backward, hurling herself out of their grasp and onto the ground. 

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stand, or think. She kept sucking down air, but it went nowhere—nowhere that mattered. Not her lungs, not her brain. Not the places she needed it most. 

“But did you ever stop to think…that maybe _they’re_ not the problem?” 

And then came the final transformation. The killing blow. 

Catra looked up and found herself face-to-face with Scorpia. Scorpia’s kind eyes. Scorpia’s welcoming arms. 

Scorpia, who only stared down at her sadly. The same way she’d stared when she said those four awful words, right before she defected. “You’re a bad friend.”

Awful words. But ones that Catra knew to be true, even then. 

“It’s you,” Double Trouble said, in Scorpia’s voice. “You drive them away, wildcat.” 

Catra hadn’t known that a sentence could steal a breath as quickly—or as forcefully—as that one did. But now she understood. Now she felt it—that frantic hammering in her heart, that endless struggle to breathe. She couldn’t stop seeing those faces—Shadow Weaver’s, Hordak’s, Adora’s, Scorpia’s—scorched across her eyes. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

Catra’s voice was no more than a murmur. It was a defeated sort of demand, one that sounded suspiciously like a cry for mercy. 

And then Scorpia was gone, and Double Trouble—in their true form—was back, kneeling until their eyes were level with hers. 

“It’s for your own good, darling. We both know this is never what you really wanted.” 

Catra gaped again, tormented by the implication of those words. They knew. They knew everything Catra had tried to hide, to bury, beneath violence and war. Beneath her fractured visions of power and control. They knew, and laid it bare for the world to see—the things Catra wanted most. Wanted most... from the people who no longer wanted _her._

And they knew that she had none of those things. None of the things she truly wished for, truly needed. All she had was this—this war—and her misguided hope to win it. As if that would somehow fix everything. As if that would give Catra any of the things that she actually wanted. 

“But,” Double Trouble continued cheerfully, holding up a tracker pad for Catra’s viewing pleasure. “it was also a good distraction.” 

And then Catra saw it. The images crackling across the screen: the princesses destroying Catra’s bots, her armies, her hopes of victory. Never before had she seen the princess so coordinated, so powerful. The bots were decimated easily. Her soldiers, scrambling to retreat. 

Horror consumed each and every nerve within Catra’s face. She was dumbstruck—paralyzed. Mouth unhinged as a broken window. 

“Your army was ambushed on their way to ‘defenseless’ Bright Moon,” Double Trouble explained, smirking. 

Catra could only manage one sentence. Three words. Her voice sounded like someone else’s. Someone broken and defeated. 

“You betrayed me.” 

A statement of the obvious. The obvious...and the unthinkable. 

“It’s not personal, darling.” 

Double Trouble stood and grinned at her semi-apologetically. “You knew how this worked. The best way to survive is to always choose the winning side. The rebels have some sort of ancient superweapon. Any second now, they’re going to use it. And when they do…” They frowned at her. “Everything you’ve worked for will be destroyed.” 

Catra kept on staring, unable to process any of it. She had lost. She had really, truly lost. The Horde was finished. Catra was finished. She had been here, fistfighting with Hordak, while her armies—her plans—were utterly upended. How could she have let herself get so distracted? So easily outsmarted? That was all she had. Her strategies. Her chance at victory. And now they were gone, all of them. Gone, gone, _gone._

And still, there was more to come. Another weapon. Another blow. Something she hadn’t even anticipated. It was worse than she’d ever imagined, and still the princesses would cut her lower—break her further. 

Double Trouble clapped their hands together, smiling cheerfully once again. “I really better get going before that happens!” 

Double Trouble gave a flourish of a bow, leaning in close to Catra’s face so that they could press a mocking finger against her nose. 

“And...scene.” 

* * *

##  enough

The sparkly princess found her first. Glimmer. 

Catra knew her name, even though she always pretended she didn’t. It was hard to forget the name of the person who’d replaced her. 

She saw the way Glimmer examined the scene—the evidence of Catra and Hordak’s fight. The collapsed building. The curling smoke. Hordak only a few feet away, unconscious and pinned beneath the wreckage. 

Glimmer smirked, then raised her weapon—some sort of staff—level with Catra’s eyes. 

“Guess you wanted all my attention for yourself.” 

Catra didn’t move. Didn’t care. She didn’t even have the humor to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 

What would she even do, if she still possessed the strength? Would she fight this princess she’d once saved, this princess who could probably blast her apart with the sheer force of her—Catra could hardly bear to think it— _magic sparkles_? 

Catra would lose. That was the plain and honest truth. No matter how much Catra won, she’d been losing all along. 

And not just to the princesses, either. 

Standing up now—fighting now, when there was nothing to fight for... 

That would only humiliate herself more. If there was even any farther to fall. 

“Your troops are gone,” Glimmer told her gloatingly. “You’re all alone. You’ve lost.” 

That was fine, Catra thought. She didn’t need troops. She didn’t need anything anymore. All she wanted was some silence. Some darkness. Some freedom from all of this—the things that she didn’t have. The things she’d never have. 

Catra was finished. She’d had enough. She’d had too much, and too little. There was nothing left here, in the Horde. She’d destroyed it all. This mess was hers, all hers, and she might as well burn with it. 

“What are you waiting for?” Catra murmured. “Do it.” 

Glimmer hesitated, stunned to see Catra so willing to accept defeat. 

But Catra wouldn’t even look at Glimmer. Catra always thought that Adora would be the one to deliver the killing blow, if it ever came to that. That it’d be She-Ra’s sword slicing through Catra’s chest. There’d be something poetic about that, at least. 

But Adora wasn’t here. She couldn’t even be bothered to finally off her once-best-friend. Instead, she’d sent Catra’s replacement to do it. And so Catra was going to die of _magic sparkles,_ of all things. 

Where was she? Where was Adora? Didn’t her stupid “Best Friends Squad” always stick together? Or had Adora been too good for that as well? 

“Looks like we’re both alone, Sparkles.” 

And then Catra closed her eyes, hoping it would be over quickly. 

But it wasn’t. A scream stabbed its way into Catra’s ears, throwing both eyes open. The ground began to rumble beneath their feet, and then Glimmer’s body began to glow. There were symbols scrawled all over her, suddenly, in a language Catra couldn’t decipher—but one that she could recognize. 

The language of the First Ones. 

This must be it. The superweapon. These rebels wouldn’t let Catra die until the final act. 

But no, something wasn’t right. Glimmer was screaming…falling to her knees. Clutching at her sides like something was trying to tear its way out of them. And there was magic—magic, everywhere. Rising from her, from the ground, in a thick, colorful plume of smoke. She’d never seen magic look so painful. 

Catra could only sit and watch, though it was hardly a pretty sight. Neither of them were getting what they wanted out of this. Catra was still here, sprawled on the floor and wishing to be free of this—of everything—and Glimmer still hadn’t dealt the deathblow she’d been promised. 

Why couldn’t anything ever be easy with princesses? 

“Adora was right,” Glimmer gasped. “Light Hope used me. She activated the Heart.” 

_Adora was right._ Three words that would haunt Catra forever. It seemed no one was immune to them. Not Catra, not Glimmer, not the Horde, not the Rebellion. Adora always knew what was best. What path to take, and the people to leave behind. 

Still, Catra didn’t understand how the activation of the weapon was a bad thing. How was that any different from what Glimmer—or Adora—wanted? She knew Adora. She knew that she’d do anything to win. 

So Catra urged Glimmer to do it. To use the weapon. To finish this, just as they both wanted. 

“I can’t,” Glimmer said, still gasping on the floor like a fish pulled from a stream. “It would destroy everything.” 

Catra didn’t understand. What had gone wrong? Was the supreme irony of all this that neither of them would win the war? Not the rebels. Not the Horde. Some magical superweapon would wipe both sides out before either could throw up a white flag. 

“I have to try and stop it.” 

Glimmer rose to her feet and stumbled her way out of the room. 

Catra considered, for a moment. What was she supposed to do now? Would it be worth it to try to escape, now that her would-be executioner had other priorities? Or should she sit pretty and wait, accepting that just rewards would arrive, in due time? 

Or should she follow? Just to see how it all ended? 

There was a joke to be made about Catra and curiosity, but she paid it no mind. Instead, she followed Glimmer’s staggering footsteps, watching from afar as she approached the Black Garnet chamber. The veil of magic around Glimmer only grew as she pressed onwards—and not just in color. If Glimmer’s shrieking and heavy breathing were any indication, it was growing more painful as well. 

Catra watched as Glimmer desperately tried to turn her magic against the Black Garnet, tossing sparkling projectiles against its surface. But nothing happened. Nothing stopped. 

Until, suddenly, it did. 

Catra wasn’t sure what flipped the switch on all that magic. What caused Glimmer to fall to the floor in relief. But it wasn’t Glimmer’s fruitless efforts against the Black Garnet. 

Somehow, she knew it was Adora. Out there, somewhere, Adora had put a stop to whatever disaster this “superweapon” was supposed to inflict. 

Which was why she wasn’t here. The world always came first. It would always come first. And no friend—not Catra, not Glimmer—would break that trend. 

Catra should have run when she noticed that the sky was suddenly filled with... _things._ Sparkling, twinkling dots of light, peppering the dark, smoke-clogged ceiling of the Fright Zone. What were they? What had happened to the sky? 

What had Adora done? 

Catra was too distracted when Hordak got to his feet. He didn’t notice her—didn’t notice Catra—but he certainly noticed Glimmer kneeling on the floor, collecting her breath. He grabbed the heaviest thing within reach—a hefty shard of metal and concrete—and raised it as a bludgeon. 

Catra wasn’t sure what she should do. Rescue Glimmer? Aid Hordak? She had no urge to run, but no urge to fight either. What side was she on, now? Were there even sides anymore? 

Though she supposed sides didn’t matter, in the end. Not when the green light appeared. And that green light encompassed them all—grabbing Catra, Hordak, and Glimmer with an indiscriminate greed—before it dissolved them all into nothing. 

* * *

##  space

“You have a fear of it. Of space.” 

Catra cracks open one eye and shoots Perfuma a crooked, partially-annoyed grin. “Like you’re one to talk. You won’t even go near Darla.” 

Perfuma isn’t amused. “You know that’s not the kind of space I mean.” 

Catra rolls her eyes, because _of course_ it isn’t. Nothing is ever easy with princesses. 

“Oh goody,” Catra says, feigning enthusiasm. “Another relationship talk.” 

They’re both kneeling on the grass in Bright Moon’s courtyard—just the two of them, Catra and Perfuma. Well, Catra is kneeling, anyway. Perfuma is carelessly cross-legged, arms perfectly centered. She looks like some sort of pastel statue, sitting like that. With her eyes closed and some sort of pink flower balancing between her hands. 

Perfuma’s eyes blink open. “Not a relationship talk. A _you_ talk.” 

She reaches over and places the flower in Catra’s lap. Once there, it starts to grow—the petals expanding in length and brightening in color. It’s a heavy-handed metaphor to be sure—the kind Catra resists the urge to scoff at—but Perfuma’s intentions are almost always well-meaning, if a bit unsubtle. 

“You don’t like the fact that Adora’s not here,” Perfuma observes. 

“Well, yeah,” Catra says, acknowledging the obviousness of that fact. “Do you think meditation was _my_ idea? I only agreed to this because she made me.” 

Catra crosses her arms then, not quite finished with her barrage of complaints. “And besides, Adora’s the one who really needs it. Do you know she wakes up at 6AM every morning to do jumping jacks? Every morning—jumping jacks. A hundred of them. And that’s not anything new—she’s been doing that since we were kids. Stress is Adora’s natural state, yet she sends _me_ to meditation.” 

Perfuma smiles and nods. “I’m sure Adora could also benefit from some peaceful meditation. But I was the one who suggested that you meditate separately.” 

“What?” Catra squints at her. “Why?” 

Soon enough, Perfuma is reaching over again. Catra thinks that she’s about to place another kind of plant in Catra’s lap—and truly, if Perfuma makes Catra some sort of flower crown, she absolutely will _not_ wear it—but she doesn’t. Instead, she simply takes Catra’s hands in hers. 

“Catra,” Perfuma begins, staring at Catra so directly and earnestly that it makes her a bit uncomfortable. “What do you do when Adora’s not around?” 

Catra shrugs, despite knowing the answer. Usually, she just waits for Adora to get back. But rather than admit this, she says: “I don’t know…go bother Glimmer and Bow, I guess.” 

“And if Glimmer and Bow aren’t around?” 

“Go find Scorpia. Or you.” 

Perfuma’s smile is even more gentle than before. “And if Scorpia and I aren’t around?” 

Catra’s scrambling for answers now, and none of them are good ones. “I guess I’d go to Salineas and get back to work.” 

“And do you enjoy that?” Perfuma asks. “Working to reconstruct Salineas?” 

“Yes,” Catra says, nodding, pleased to have a proper answer to something. “It feels good—helping the people I hurt.” 

“But that project won’t take forever. So what will you do when you’re done reconstructing Salineas?” continues Perfuma. And then, as an afterthought, Perfuma adds: “Assuming that Adora, Glimmer, Bow, Scorpia, and I aren’t around, that is.” 

Catra tears her hands out of Perfuma’s grasp. “What are you even suggesting?” Catra demands, and she can’t help it—the way her voice climbs in outrage. “That as soon as I’m done putting in my manual labor, everyone’s just gonna up and leave me again?” 

Perfuma raises her eyebrows. “ _Again?_ ” 

Self-awareness returns slowly, and Catra forces herself to deflate. She hadn’t even noticed the tension in her own muscles—or the anxiety that these strange questions have instilled within her. But now she feels it. The tingling across her arms, along the back of her neck. 

She hates it. She hates it, because she’s supposed to be better than this now. She knows now that Adora and Scorpia had to leave, that it was best for everyone. And being angry about it is stupid— 

“I shouldn’t have gotten mad,” Catra murmurs, trying to regain the composure that she lost so suddenly—and so senselessly. After that kind of outburst, she can hardly meet Perfuma’s eyes without her cheeks burning bright red in embarrassment. 

Though when Perfuma tilts Catra’s chin up, setting their eyelines perfectly parallel, she isn’t given much of a choice in terms of where to look. 

“Catra…” Perfuma says. “I’m not asking these things to scare you. I’m asking these things because...well…I don’t think that you’re at peace with yourself yet.” 

Catra blinks, not quite understanding. “What do you mean? That was probably the first time I’ve yelled at anyone in ages.” 

“But you still want to, beneath the surface. Because it offends you—the idea that you might be by yourself for some period of time.” 

Catra rubs at her own forearms, feeling, suddenly, like she wants to shrink into the grass, beyond Perfuma’s scope of vision. “Of course it offends me. I don’t know if you remember, but I didn’t do so well at that, last time—being alone.” 

Perfuma carefully disentangles Catra’s arms, once again seeking to clutch Catra’s hands in hers. “Space is a natural part of any relationship, romantic or otherwise. It’s how we show that we trust the people we love. Trust them to return. Or even stay away, if that’s what’s best for them. No two people are meant to be around each other all the time. Giving yourself and other people space is the healthy thing to do.” 

“But I don’t like it,” Catra says almost frantically. “I don’t like being alone.” 

“Why?” 

There are tears welling in Catra’s eyes now. “Because I don’t know if anyone will come back.” 

Perfuma’s expression is skeptical. “And you’re sure that’s it? That’s the reason?” 

There's an edge of indignance when Catra says: “What else could it be?” 

Her expression grows a bit sad, then. Perfuma’s. And then Perfuma says something Catra should’ve known all along. 

"I’m worried that you don’t know who you are, Catra. Not when you’re by yourself. You don’t know what you like, or what to do with yourself. You struggle to see your own value without people there to see it for you.” 

That leaves Catra silent for a long time. Too long. Because she knows that Perfuma is completely and terrifyingly right. Catra doesn’t know what to do when there’s no one else—no one but herself. Doesn’t know whether she’ll make the right decisions without anyone there to guide her. And if she doesn’t make the right choices...if she travels down that awful path she walked before— 

“It’s difficult to be truly happy with other people,” says Perfuma gently, moving one hand to Catra’s shoulder as a comfort,“if you don’t know how to be happy by yourself.” 

“And what?” Catra says, wiping a few fat tears out of her eye. “Is meditation gonna do that? Is it gonna somehow fix everything?” 

A part of her wishes that the answer is _yes._ Easy as that, Catra will learn more about her true self. No fuss, no muss, just better self-esteem. Wouldn’t that be something great? 

But the look on Perfuma’s face tells her, quite plainly, that such is not the case. 

“Meditation definitely won’t fix everything,” Perfuma says. “But it’s a start. It can help you start to find peace in silence—in independence. There’s a difference between being on your own and being alone, Catra.” 

“And what is it?” Catra asks. “The difference, I mean.” 

Perfuma smiles. “Belief. Belief in yourself—to do right, to take care—even when there’s no one else to believe in you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning for torture** in this chapter. Some rough stuff takes place on Horde Prime's ship and I love angst so I didn't really pull any punches. 
> 
> just a heads up that this and the last chapter was largely written before "Don't Go" became _maybe_ canon as noelle's fic... so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. There will, therefore, be parts that diverge from "Don't Go." It's still canon-compliant with the show, though. 
> 
> AND FINALLY... i beggeth u... a spare review? i am starving. I've never once had my work beta'd and I need feedback to survive.

#  iv.

## before

Adora and Catra stand side-by-side, hand-in-hand. The immensity of space stretches before them, each star winking in the distance like an enormous set of glowing eyes.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Catra says, unable to tear her gaze away. “To think there was a time before this. A time before stars.”

“The stars never went anywhere,” Adora says. “It was Etheria that got pulled somewhere else—somewhere dark. And maybe the journey back was a bit rocky but…” Adora squeezes Catra’s hand. “I know we’re better off now. There’s a whole universe ahead of us.”

Catra hums in agreement, then shoots Adora a mischievous grin. “Do you think Glimmer and Bow have kissed yet? You know, on the ship.”

Adora blinks, clearly confused about the relevance of the question. “I don’t know. I mean, I doubt it—we just took off.”

“Good to know,” Catra says, then pulls Adora in by the collar.

The kiss she leaves on Adora’s lips is a fierce and breathless sort—far less tender and tentative than their first kiss at the Heart—and when she releases the fabric of Adora’s shirt, Adora is left dazed and flushed. Smiling like an idiot, sure, but dazed and flushed all the same.

“W-wha…” Adora sputters. “What was that for?”

“That was for me,” Catra says, grinning all the wider. “I am now, officially, the first Etherian kissed in space.”

* * *

## burning

It was difficult to admire the stars while an entire planet was burning beneath them.

Explosions blinked across that planet’s surface—plumes of orange and red that faded into nothing, then burst into color once again. It seemed neverending, this barrage of destruction. No matter how many bombs they dropped, no matter how many acres Prime reduced to dust, they just kept detonating more.

What was the point, Catra wondered? How much dust, exactly, did Prime need to achieve his “perfect universe?”

He did this to every planet they passed over. Even if it was empty. Even if the populace didn’t put up a fight.

Catra watched from one of the windows on Horde Prime’s ship. There wasn’t much else to do, truthfully—in space. This wasn’t the Horde as she knew it. She had nothing to command here, nothing to plan. No power or freedom she could claim outside of that which Horde Prime permitted her. Which was almost none at all.

And more than that—she had no one to talk to, with the exception of Horde Prime and Queen Glimmer.

Though if Catra had any say—which she often didn’t—Prime was definitely not Catra’s preferred conversationalist out of the two.

Horde Prime was nothing like Hordak. He wasn’t some insecure, would-be dictator, desperately trying to retain the barest control over Etheria’s magical landscape. He didn’t throw tantrums in fruitless defense of his slipping authority. He didn’t insist upon conquering and ruling when he could simply destroy.

Horde Prime was cunning. And calculating. Each word out of his mouth, every action he took—it was clinical. Precise. Free of sentimentality or morality.

He claimed to see and know all, and given what Catra had seen of him so far…she wasn’t inclined to disagree.

He scared her. Horde Prime scared her. Never had she felt so small, sharing a room—or even a universe—with another person. If he could even be called that. A person. It seemed too vivid a word to apply to someone so detached and sterile.

And he made sure Catra knew it, too. That she was small. That she was insignificant. That none of her usual lies and machinations would work here, with him.

The dinner proved that to her quite emphatically. It was strange, she thought. Strange that he’d invited her when Catra had already agreed to be his ally. But still she’d been commanded to attend, just like Glimmer.

Though it became immediately clear that this was no casual meal between friends. As soon as Horde Prime began happily discussing the now-extinct worlds their food had originated from, Catra saw the meeting for what it was: Glimmer’s interrogation. No, more than that—a torture session. Psychological torture, but torture all the same.

Glimmer was vulnerable to it too. Sweat poured down her face with every word from Horde Prime’s not-quite-lips. And that was when Catra realized just how dangerous this situation was for the both of them.

Glimmer knew more about the Heart of Etheria than Catra did. If Glimmer revealed too much—about how it worked, or what it could do—they could both find themselves expendable. And Catra suspected that Horde Prime didn’t keep expendable personnel on his ship for long.

Their survival—Glimmer and Catra’s both—depended on withholding just enough information to ensure their own continued existence.

And as Glimmer continued to sweat her way through the meal, Catra tried to communicate that to her wordlessly—sending her the barest of head shakes, or the subtlest movements of her eyes.

 _Don’t tell him anything,_ she willed Glimmer to understand.

Though it didn’t really help. Glimmer’s distress was painted clear across her face. Catra could see that. And if she could she could see that, so could Horde Prime.

Though Catra couldn’t claim to be any better at stifling her own emotions. Not after what happened next.

Because that was when Horde Prime broke out the video footage—footage from Etheria’s frontlines.

An enormous array of screens behind Horde Prime began to broadcast what appeared to be Etheria’s last stand. On each individual screen arrived a different princess or rebel hero, each of them struggling to overcome an ever-approaching, ever-growing army of Horde Prime’s bots.

She recognized that many of them were Glimmer’s friends. Bow was there, coughing in the dirt, desperately trying to find his footing despite the exhaustion of the fight. And there was the water princess, the plant princess, and—

And Scorpia. Scorpia was there too, firing off sizzling blasts of electricity to keep the bots at bay. She was doing all she could to protect the Etherian townspeople—to get everyone to safety.

That was the first time Catra had seen Scorpia since she’d left the Horde. And while she found herself unable to look away, she did her best to keep her expression neutral. Calm. Detached.

Glimmer’s horror, on the other hand, was plain as the tears welling in her eyes, or the little gasps that continuously left her mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” Glimmer demanded.

“Every rebellion forms around a leader,” Horde Prime remarked casually. “A beacon of hope. That little note of discord.”

And then one of the screens changed, winking with green static before it revealed the one princess Catra had not yet seen.

“Ah, here she is. Your beacon of hope.”

Adora. She was running, gasping for breath, hair spilling from her ponytail and eyes alight with terror. She was being pursued by bots on all sides, defending herself with nothing but a purple staff and her own two feet.

It was involuntary—the way Catra’s nails scraped into the tabletop. What was Adora doing? Why hadn’t she turned into She-Ra to defend herself?

If she didn’t transform soon, Adora was going to die. That much was evident. But there was no sword—Catra couldn’t see it anywhere. Did Adora lose it, somehow? Was the sword finally gone?

The thought should have satisfied her. But right then, she couldn’t muster it—couldn’t muster the satisfaction. All she felt was panic.

Catra watched as one of the bots blasted Adora off her feet. For a brief second, Catra thought they’d killed her—killed Adora—her body splayed across the ground like some broken doll’s. But no—Catra soon saw her moving. Grasping for that stupid staff. A wasted effort, considering how quickly Horde Prime’s bots fired it out of her reach.

Within seconds, she was surrounded. Defenseless. Catra had never seen such hopeless desperation in Adora’s eyes. Adora, who never gave up. Adora, who walked with the whole world poised on her shoulders.

Catra couldn’t believe it. What was Adora _doing?_ Where was she? Where was She-Ra?

But none of Catra’s soundless disbelief could’ve helped her. The bots had Adora in their sights, placed perfectly between their crosshairs. Adora opened her mouth to scream—

“Stop!” Glimmer cried as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Don’t hurt her!”

And Catra knew it was over for the both of them.

Horde Prime only smiled politely as Glimmer showed her hand—describing how She-Ra was necessary to operate the weapon. She-Ra, along with the other princesses. If he wanted the weapon, he’d have to leave Adora alive.

Though Catra had questions—desperate ones, ones she dared not ask in front of Horde Prime. Things that would only poke holes in her own impersonation of usefulness.

Adora wasn’t She-Ra without the sword. So what had happened to it? And was the weapon still operable without it?

Horde Prime seemed satisfied enough, though. With a wave of his hand, the screens faded to darkness, and Catra could only assume that Adora had been spared. Horde Prime seemed convinced, at the very least, that Adora was critical to Etheria’s weaponization in some capacity.

Information that Catra herself had not known. Not until that moment.

It became apparent, then. Apparent that Catra was in way over her head and sinking deeper by the second. She had nothing real to offer Prime—no purpose aboard this ship, no place in this new universe he wished to build. Her days were numbered and dwindling by the second.

And Prime knew it, too.

He asked her to stay behind, after dinner. For a chat. Catra didn’t want Glimmer to leave her alone with him—with Prime. But neither of them were given much of a choice as Glimmer was walked out of the room, surrounded by clones on all sides.

Besides, it wasn’t like Glimmer would protect Catra, anyway. They were enemies. Always would be.

It just would’ve been nice, was all. Nice to have a familiar face sitting beside her.

Catra made sure she was the first one to speak, rising to her feet so she could assume some imitation of calmness. Sitting made her feel too much like another hostage— like another Glimmer, seated before a meal intended only to frighten and intimidate her.

“Neat trick, with all the footage of her friends in danger,” Catra complimented, hoping that flattery might earn her some time. “These princesses are so predictable with their feelings.”

She said that word— _feelings_ —like it was something hilarious. A joke. A weakness.

But Horde Prime wasn’t amused. And he clearly didn’t like having someone standing over him. He too rose to his feet, stalking toward Catra until he towered directly over her.

“As were you,” he said, smiling all-too-pleasantly.

Catra could only stare up at him—bathed in his shadow, craning her neck to meet his eyes. “What?”

He had a funny way of looking at people, Horde Prime. Like each and every person was a strange and volatile scientific experiment of his own arrangement. One that he could control, so long as he had enough information to understand them.

It made her feel transparent. Like a collection of data points, rather than a breathing, thinking person.

And clearly, that was exactly how Horde Prime viewed her, too. As a collection of data points. There were two that concerned him, in particular:

“Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils,” Horde Prime observed, seeming heartily amused—and unsurprised—by such a discovery. “Adora means something to you.”

She was quick to deny it. Catra was always quick to deny her feelings where Adora was concerned. But it quickly became obvious that Prime just plain didn’t believe her. Catra’s body had betrayed her in the same way Glimmer’s face had. She’d given away too much in her blind, backwards panic over Adora’s well-being. More than she cared to even admit to herself.

And then she realized that this dinner—this chat…it wasn’t just to torture and interrogate Glimmer. It was for Catra’s benefit too. A display of power. Of control.

A message that unmistakably declared that Catra was every bit the prisoner that Glimmer was.

“You Etherians are all alike,” Horde Prime continued, leaning in close until she felt the scrape of his fingers against her jaw. “Such strong connections to one another. It’s what makes you weak.”

She knew it was over, then. This pretense of actually being useful to him. He’d never trust her. Not while she maintained such conflicting feelings about his enemy.

There was only one question after that. One that would only serve to frighten her, even if he had told her the truth.

“What are you going to do with me?” Catra whispered.

* * *

## harbinger

“Nighttime stroll?” Catra asks, placing a hand on Melog’s head. If they went any further, they’d end up trampling the royalty on the floor. “Or I guess this is more of a nighttime sit than a stroll.”

Glimmer starts at the sound of Catra’s voice. It’s quick and discreet—the way she rubs the tears from her eyes—but it doesn’t quite escape Catra’s notice.

It’s late. The palace hallway where Catra stands is illuminated solely by a magical orb of Glimmer’s making, one that glows with sparkling pink light.

The light pulsates across the walls, making it appear as though the murals are moving of their own accord. There’s one in particular that seems more animated than the rest: a depiction of a tall woman with enormous white wings.

Queen Angella.

Glimmer looks up at her skeptically. “Come on, Catra. You of all people know what day it is.”

There’s an implication in those words, one that Catra knows she deserves. If Catra never opened that portal all those years ago, Queen Angella would still be here in Bright Moon with her family.

It must be the anniversary of it—of Angella’s death, and by extension, Catra’s most despicable act.

Truthfully, Catra doesn’t remember what day it was when she opened that portal—she was too crazed by revenge and hatred to pay attention to the date. And since then, she’s done her best to forget about it entirely.

But Glimmer knows, and remembers. Glimmer will remember for the rest of her life.

Catra drops to the floor beside Glimmer and crosses her legs. “Sorry,” she says. “You know I’m no good at comforting people. Never have been.”

Though Melog seems to be quite good at it, despite Catra’s shortcomings in that department. They leave Catra’s side to curl themselves around Glimmer, nudging her gently with their nose and moaning in a mournful sort of way.

Glimmer smiles softly and lays a hand across Melog’s head.“What are you doing up, anyway?” she asks Catra, though she’s still looking at Melog.

Catra shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Adora has a cold and she’s been snoring all week. Besides…” She shrugs again, pulling her knees close to her chest. “I’m supposed to be getting better at this. At being on my own.”

They fall into silence after that. And that’s something else the Horde never had. Silence. The Fright Zone always reverberated with sound of some kind, even if no one was speaking. The clanking of machinery. The stomping of feet. The coughing of soldiers in the barracks.

She remembers a time back in the Fright Zone when a cold was something to be terrified of. A threat that could only be survived through luck and a favorable immune system. But here, thanks to doctors and medicine and days of bedrest, Adora would recover easily. Maybe even recover within the week.

All the worst fears of Catra's life became so minor here, in Bright Moon—so negligible. Like she never should’ve feared them at all.

Catra wonders, then, how different her life would’ve been, if she’d grown up here, in Bright Moon, instead of in the Horde. How different would Catra be if terror wasn't her natural state?

Maybe not that different, she realizes, glancing at Glimmer. Catra might have known Adora best, but Glimmer was the princess she most related to. They shared a lot of the same fears—the same weaknesses. Fears of abandonment, of betrayal. Immense stubbornness and incurable pride.

Even their histories had remarkable similarities. Both of them, child soldiers who had lost too much too early. Kids who struggled to make friends and keep them. And young adults whose mistakes nearly destroyed the world.

“I’m sorry about Angella,” Catra says quietly, eyeing that light-doused mural on the wall. “I hope you know that.”

“And I hope you know that I forgave you alone time ago,” Glimmer says, as if it’s obvious. “We’re the two biggest screw-ups around. If we can’t forgive each other, who else will?”

Glimmer’s thoughts must have mirrored Catra's at that moment. Glimmer was, after all, the person who first activated the Heart of Etheria—a decision ultimately attracted Horde Prime to their doorstep. Catra, meanwhile, once opened a reality-tearing portal that nearly destroyed the fabric of spacetime, and ultimately took Angella’s life.

Together, Glimmer and Catra were twin harbingers of the apocalypse.

“You saved me from Horde Prime,” Glimmer says. “You nearly sacrificed yourself to save me.” She sighs. “I think that, if my mom were still around, she’d forgive you too. Forgive you more than she’d ever forgive me, anyway. For being so stupid and reckless.”

“Being stupid and reckless is a part of growing up,” Catra says absently, and for once those are her words—not Perfuma’s or Adora’s repeated for someone else’s benefit. They’re hers alone, and she knows them well. Most of the time that’s the only justification she has for how she used to behave: being stupid and reckless. “I’m sure your mom would understand and forgive you.”

Again, they find themselves enclosed in silence. Silence, at least, until Catra poses a question she’s been wanting to ask for a long time.

“So what was she like?” Catra says. “Your mom. I always hear great things about her, and well…” An image of Shadow Weaver crawls its way out of Catra’s memory, and her voice darkens a shade. “...it’s not like I have much to compare her to.”

Melog settles themself between them both, nestled against their sides. Melog is a bridge between them, of sorts, as Glimmer begins to recall her favorite memories from her childhood. Cookie decorating with her mother, royal balls, bandaged scraped knees, and books read aloud right before bed.

And they’re warm, those memories. Warmer than Catra knew a memory could be.

* * *

## chances

It was embarrassing, Catra thought—how often she found herself drawn to Glimmer’s cell. They’d been enemies their whole lives. Glimmer was a princess. The leader of the rebellion that sought to destroy the Horde. They had nothing, _nothing,_ in common with one another.

And yet Catra lingered close to her cell anyway. Glimmer’s company, at least, would be better than the alternative. Namely, the brainless clones that frequently patrolled the ship. Clones who watched Catra’s every move and happily reported every detail back to Horde Prime.

But time stretched aboard the ship, and eventually the silence grew too immense for Catra to bear. Everything else here—it was so foreign, so unapproachable, so _quiet._ But Glimmer wasn’t. Glimmer was loud and angry. And—more than anything—the only familiarity in this entire stretch of galaxy.

But Horde Prime had forbidden Catra from speaking with her.

Though Catra didn’t understand why he cared. It wasn’t like they could conspire to escape together. If Catra had discovered any means of escape, she would’ve disappeared long ago. Glimmer, meanwhile, was totally stuck without her magic, effectively confined to her cell unless Horde Prime said otherwise.

Neither Catra nor Glimmer had a prayer of leaving this ship. Etheria was so hopelessly out of reach that it became difficult to imagine. Difficult to imagine, at least, unless Catra began talking to the only other person who remembered it. Even if it was against the rules.

And so Catra found herself sitting back to back with a princess. With Glimmer. But could anyone really blame her? Glimmer was Catra’s only remaining connection to Etheria. To her home, to her life…

...and to Adora.

“So what would you be doing if you were back on Etheria right now and not, you know, a prisoner on an alien ship?” Catra asked, tucking her knees close to her chest.

Glimmer spoke a bunch about visiting the different princesses. Teleporting places. It was hard to picture something like that now—the ability to travel wherever they wanted. Though it was especially difficult for Catra, who’d only traveled in efforts to conquer—to destroy.

But Glimmer’s voice was so wistful and serene, Catra couldn’t even be jealous.

“If it were a really perfect day, Bow, Adora, and I would be having a sleepover. We’d raid Bright Moon’s kitchen for cake, and then we’d eat with our hands right off the platter.”

For once, Catra tried to picture it. What life must be like in Bright Moon. Out of all the other kingdoms, that one always sounded too perfect to Catra. Too unbelievable, with its endless supply of parties and pastels and pastries.

But maybe a slice of perfect was what Catra wanted to imagine right now. A slice of Glimmer’s world—that impractical world so unlike anything Catra had ever experienced.

It seemed like something from a dreamland. The idea of eating cake in a pastel castle. Lounging with Adora and her friends all night long, talking about nothing of import, laughing at things that mattered so little in scope of the world, but would matter infinitely in memory.

It reminded her of something. Something not nearly as perfect, but the closest thing Catra ever came to it.

“We used to have those,” Catra said quietly.

“What?”

“Sleepovers. Me and Adora, when we were cadets in the Horde,” Catra said, allowing herself the barest of smiles at the thought. “We’d play tricks on Kyle. Stay up all night whispering about...”

She recalled one night, in particular. The warmest night of her life, a long time ago. Adora’s hair splayed across the pillow as she’d laughed. The sweat of their hands as their fingers intertwined with one another.

Adora’s soft smile as she gazed at Catra across the pillow. _“You’re pretty, Catra. Even if you don’t care.”_

Catra trailed off, hoping that her cheeks weren’t too visibly red.

It wasn’t long before they were laughing about Adora, too. About her tendency to fight in her sleep, and her inability to relax, even while unconscious.

It struck her, then. How unlike herself she felt. Laughing on the floor with an enemy. Reminiscing about the one person she was determined to forget.

Even laughing, in general, felt strange and new. Catra hadn’t done it in forever. Not like this, anyway. Laughing not to insult, or to mock—but because the thoughts in her head were genuinely happy for once.

“I miss them,” Glimmer sighed. “I was so awful to them, the last time we saw each other. I’d do anything to go back and make it right.”

Catra knew who Glimmer was talking about. Adora and Bow. The stupidly-named Best Friend Squad that Catra had wasted so many hours hunting, kidnapping, and attacking.

Catra recognized Glimmer’s tone of voice too, even if it was one that Catra herself refused to ever use. Guilt. Glimmer felt guilty.

There was no use in it, though. In Glimmer’s guilt. So what if she’d activated the Heart of Etheria against Adora’s wishes? Bow and Adora—they’d forgive her easily. It was only her first mistake—the first time she’d hurt her friends. And people were supposed to get second chances after their first mistake.

Catra, on the other hand…Catra was long beyond second, third, and fourth chances. She’d made a hobby out of it—out of hurting her friends. Entrapta first, by sending her to Beast Island. Then Scorpia, through indifference and demeaning insults. And Adora…

There was probably no one in the universe Catra had tried to hurt more than Adora. Exchanging blows at every available opportunity. Kidnapping her friends. Leaving her dangling off that cliff. Sending endless bots and armies after her.

And then the worst one. Catra’s opening of that portal—the one that nearly destroyed the world.

It suddenly seemed so pointless. Nothing was gained through all that bickering, all that destruction. And they certainly weren’t winning anything now, with an interloper like Horde Prime determined to wrest control of Etheria.

Now they both had nothing. Now there wasn’t even a Horde or a She-Ra anymore. Adora was powerless, leading a doomed group of freedom fighters on Etheria, and Catra was here, alone in space, groveling at Horde Prime’s feet for another second of breath.

She wondered what it would be like, if they’d never fought at all. If Catra had defected with Adora when she’d first asked. Would Catra have been part of her silly Best Friends Squad? Would she have been some sort of rebel hero—finally fighting against the Horde she’d hated for so long?

Or even if she _hadn’t_ defected, Catra could have at least restrained herself. She could’ve let the Horde and the rebellion figure out their differences on their own, pretending to be a good soldier while never actually helping the Horde achieve true victory.

Catra could’ve been someone different, someone better. And if she had walked that path, if she had chosen differently, Etheria would probably still be intact. Free of Horde Prime and all the damage he promised to inflict. So why had they fought all this time? What had Catra done, except try to destroy the few things that had once brought her happiness?

She wondered, briefly, what Adora was doing right now. She had a few good guesses. Adora was likely wide awake, strategizing to protect whatever remained of the rebellion. Or maybe she was concocting some reckless, utterly inviable plan to rescue Glimmer from Horde Prime’s clutches.

But did she…did Adora ever wonder…?

Did she ever wonder about Catra? Did she know that Catra was here, sitting beside Glimmer?

And if she did, did she even care?

But Catra knew the answer—the only possible answer. She knew that if Adora thought of Catra at all, it was only with relief. Relief that Catra was finally gone forever, never to trouble Adora again.

And suddenly, Catra wanted to cry.

“What about you?” Glimmer asked. “What would you be doing if you were back on Etheria?”

“I’d—” Catra began on an instinct, then restrained the impulse. What would she do? Apologize for it all, like that’d be worth anything? Admit that she’d been stupid, and selfish, and blind? Admit that she’d done it all—every last thing—because it was easier to inflict pain than it was to move on from it?

Catra remembered Adora’s eyes after she’d closed the portal. The hatred. The disgust. And she knew that it was no good. That some bridges simply couldn’t be unburnt.

“Nothing,” Catra said, sinking her chin into the space between her own arms. “There’s nothing for me on Etheria.”

* * *

## pinned

Truly, there is nothing like being woken up by a swift elbow to the gut.

Not that Adora ever means to do it. Catra knows better than anyone that old habits die hard. And if Catra’s occasional bruises are any indication, it seems that weird, trauma-induced sleep disorders die even harder.

“Adora!” Catra hisses, wrestling Adora’s arms to her sides. But Adora is strong even without She-Ra to amplify that strength, and it takes the full weight of Catra’s body to effectively pin Adora’s flailing limbs to the bed.

Adora’s eyes blink open, having finally been roused from the dream. For a moment she only stares at Catra above her, eyes narrowed in a stunned sort of suspicion.

Catra knows that Adora battles a wide variety of adversaries in her fighting dreams. Monsters, clones, bots, mind-controlled Etherians—even Horde Prime himself.

But there’s one person Adora fights the most, when she’s asleep.

Catra. More than half the time, it’s Catra that Adora is fighting.

Adora always tries to keep it from her, but still Catra can tell. Sometimes she hears Adora whisper her name in her sleep, and not in the tender way she does when she’s awake. She says it the way that she used to, back when they were self-declared archenemies.

 _“Catra,”_ she often mutters. Like a curse. Like a warning.

“I don’t want to fight you, Adora,” Catra says, trying to keep the sadness—and the exhaustion—out of her voice. “Not anymore. You know that.”

Adora’s chest heaves beneath her. Slowly, reality returns to her—to Adora—and that look of suspicion morphs into horror.

Adora’s limbs relax, and Catra takes that as her cue to climb off of her wrists and ankles. She rolls over so that her back is to Adora, and she can feel Adora shifting behind her—struggling to settle in again, to find comfort in this bed she shares with someone she still fears.

“I’m sorry,” Adora tells her, desperately guilty. “Did I hurt you?”

Catra shakes her head wordlessly despite the bruise she can feel forming near her abdomen. Tears are springing to her eyes again and she can’t do it—she can’t cry over something else, something so completely outside of her control or ability to change.

“Which one was it this time?” Catra asks, and it takes her full concentration to keep her voice neutral and steady. “Which fight?”

“That creature,” Adora says all-too-quickly. “The one that attacked us near the Heart—”

Catra feels as though she’s curling in on herself. “You’re lying to me,” she says, because she knows it’s true. And then she’s firm—determined to know—when she demands: “Which one was it, Adora? Which fight?”

Adora hesitates. Then, finally, she says: “The Battle of Bright Moon.”

And there they are. The tears that Catra fought so hard to fend off, back to torment her yet again.

She remembers it, too. That battle. And it’s easy enough to guess why Adora threw out her elbow like that. In the dream of the battle—in the memory of it—Catra had likely attacked her once-favorite target: Adora’s back. The flailing limbs, the jerking elbows...Adora was merely trying to protect herself from the claws plunging into her body. Catra’s claws.

And it’s a terrible thought, knowing that Adora relives that moment so frequently. How often did Adora dream about Catra’s nails raking those terrible scars across her spine?

“How do you even stand it?” Catra says, wrapping a pillow around her head—as if that could shield her from Adora’s fear, or judgement. “How can you stand to even be in the same room as me?”

Her own voice is muffled beneath the pillow, but what she does hear of herself sounds shrill, and far too loud for this time of night.

“What are you talking about?” asks Adora, plainly hurt by the question. But Catra doesn’t feel the need to elaborate. It’s all very self-explanatory, in Catra’s view.

Adora’s hands are gentle as she tries to pry Catra’s fingers from the pillow case. Bit by bit, she frees it from Catra’s grasp, and it’s not long before Adora removes it entirely, leaving Catra’s ears uncovered and vulnerable.

“I love you, Catra,” Adora tells her, propping herself up on her elbows so that she can look at Catra more directly. “They’re just nightmares.”.

“Right,” Catra says dubiously. “You love me, and yet somehow, I’m the source material for your nightmares?” The laugh that escapes Catra’s mouth is without composure, without humor. It’s more like a spasm, really. A spasm of anguish and disbelief.

“Just admit it, Adora,” Catra says miserably. “Admit that you’re afraid of me, just like everyone else.”

And deep down, Catra knows that she’s being unfair. No, she’s being beyond unfair. Catra is being _cruel_ by saying these things, these things that she doesn’t truly mean. Things that Adora would never, ever admit to, even if they were true.

She doesn’t know what she expects next. Perhaps she thought they’d just fall back into silence, into sleep, and move on by dawn. That would be simplest, after all. To forget every moment of this night—and all the similar ones before—and continue as they always have.

What Catra doesn’t expect is for Adora to grab her by the wrists and pin her to the bed. Pin her, just as Catra did to Adora only moments before.

Catra gasps, but there’s no real time to react before Adora has straddled her completely, leaving Catra unable to look anywhere but up, into Adora’s eyes.

“You’re completely unbelievable sometimes, you know that?” Adora says, outraged—sleep-mussed hair spilling all across her face. “Do you really think that I’m scared of you? That I’m only pretending to care about you?”

Catra doesn’t answer—only stares. She’s too surprised by Adora’s weight on top of her to do much of anything at all, really.

“But sure.” Adora jerks her head, flipping the fine strands of blonde out of her eyes. “Let’s play this game, if that’s what you really want. Let’s talk about what I’m afraid of.”

Adora lifts Catra’s hand and brings it to her back, guiding her fingers to the spot where the scars hide, beneath Adora’s shirt.

“You think it’s this, right?” Adora demands. “That I’m afraid of getting hurt? Of scars that don’t even hurt anymore?” Adora shakes her head in disappointment. “You think I don’t notice yours, too? They’re harder to see, but they’re there—”

Adora drops Catra’s hand from her back, instead shifting her focus to Catra’s arms. Normally Catra has to search for a few minutes to find the sword-scrapes all along her limbs, but Adora locates them easily, dragging her fingers across the thin lines of raised flesh as if she has them memorized.

“You have tons of these,” Adora says. “I’ve tried to count them, but I always lose track.”

Catra manages to shake her head. “They’re nothing—”

She presses a finger into Catra’s side, and though the touch is barely more forceful than a poke, Catra can’t stifle the involuntary gasp of pain that leaves her mouth.

“I broke this rib,” Adora says. “This one, right here. It was a while ago, but it’s never healed properly. You still wince when people touch it, even now. And it’s something of a miracle, really—that a cracked rib was the worst I ever gave you. There were other times I must’ve nearly killed you—almost fractured your skull. Or came close to pulling your arms from their sockets.”

Well, She-Ra actually _did_ do that, once. Dislocate Catra’s arm. Scorpia was the one who had to set it back into place for her—though Catra is hardly prepared to admit that now.

“So if you think that it’s _you_ that scares me,” Adora continues, loosening her grip on Catra but not quite letting go. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s not you. It’s not my injuries, or the stakes, or even the collateral damage.”

Adora releases an enormous sigh—a skittering sort of breath that threatens to evolve into a sob—and Catra feels the fight leave Adora's body before it actually happens. Feels every muscle relenting until Adora is falling, collapsing on top of her, burying her face into the crook of Catra’s neck.

“It’s me,” Adora tells her, voice stifled by skin, each word torn and frail as shredded paper. “Me, throwing punches at you. Crushing you. Hurting you.”

Catra blinks tears out of her eyes. She knows the feeling Adora is describing—knows it more intimately than anyone else ever could. And she’s sorry, so terribly sorry, for even leading them down this winding, splintering path—this trying conversation, this awful collection of memories.

“I wanted you to lose,” Adora says, still murmuring the words into Catra’s neck. “But I never wanted to lose you.”

* * *

## good

 _“Please, Catra,”_ she heard Glimmer pleading, _“Do one good thing in your life.”_

Adora was coming. Coming for Glimmer.

It was all too predictable—that Adora would stage some sort of ridiculous rescue attempt. Though Catra had hoped, at the very least, that Adora wouldn’t be so unfathomably stupid about it. So blindly selfless and self-destructive.

But she was heading straight for Horde Prime’s ship, and there wouldn’t be a battle when she arrived. She-Ra and the sword that summoned her seemed to be long gone. And there was no sense in this strategy for whatever remained of the rebellion—no advantage to be pressed, no ground to be won. Adora was too powerless to win any fights against Horde Prime’s brand of firepower.

No. Adora was coming because she cared about Glimmer. Because she was willing to die for Glimmer’s safety.

And he would do it, too. Horde Prime would kill Adora as soon as he realized the truth: that there was no She-Ra. Not anymore. And what purpose would Adora’s continued existence serve, if she could not operate his precious weapon? None at all.

He’d already threatened to purge her from the face of the universe. And with no reason to act otherwise, he’d all-too-gladly make good on that threat. Worse, he’d probably make an example of her—torture her until no one dared resist him again—and broadcast the whole thing for the rebellion to watch.

Adora was hurtling toward her death at the speed of light.

Of course, Horde Prime didn’t know that for sure. Not yet. But Catra had vaguely recognized the spacecraft that Horde Prime had displayed for her. It was the same First Ones ship she’d once tried to obtain from the Crimson Waste—though the princesses had stolen it at the last minute.

Catra had nearly forgotten about it.

Adora, evidently, had not.

After that, Horde Prime had issued Catra a single command: interrogate Glimmer. Leverage whatever trust Catra and Glimmer shared to determine whether Adora was actually aboard that ship. Whether the rebel leader—and the key to the Heart of Etheria to boot—was truly stupid enough to traipse right into his clutches.

Though that was a kind word for it. _Command._

It was more than that. More than a simple command. He’d _terrorized_ Catra into doing it—drowning, electrocuting, and lobotomizing what used to be Hordak before her very eyes. Implicit in that little display of power and cruelty was yet another threat: _confirm Adora’s presence on that ship, or I’ll do the same to you._

What else could Catra do except comply?

And it was too easy. Too easy to get the confirmation she needed. The second she mentioned the ship, Glimmer’s eyes spoke the exact truth that Catra didn’t want to hear. Of course it was Adora on that ship, who else would it be? Who else would be so thoughtlessly noble? So willing to take on such impossible odds?

She’d have to tell him. She’d have to tell Horde Prime—

But Glimmer begged her not to do it. She grabbed at Catra’s hands, tears spilling down her cheeks, crying, _pleading_ for Catra to keep on protecting Adora, to lie right to Horde Prime’s face—as if that would do either of them any good. As if that wouldn’t get them both killed, same as Adora would be.

Hadn’t Catra already done enough, by pretending not to recognize that ship? Adora was coming whether Catra lied about it or not.

But Glimmer insisted that Adora’s capture would mark the end of the universe. That once Horde Prime had She-Ra, he’d be able to use the Heart of Etheria to destroy everything. Everything, and everyone.

But hadn’t Glimmer been paying attention? Adora didn’t have the sword anymore. Adora wasn’t worth anything to him, or the rebellion, and he would kill her in an instant for her uselessness.

It wasn’t She-Ra coming to rescue Glimmer. It wasn’t some cunning rebel leader. It was just her, just Adora—kind, gentle, loyal-to-a-fault Adora—stumbling her way across the universe to rescue someone she loved.

Catra couldn’t protect her. Who would even trust Catra to, after everything she’d done?

So she’d just tell Horde Prime. She’d tell him, and let it happen. It couldn’t possibly be her fault. She wasn’t the one who told Adora to come, to risk herself like that. Catra was responsible for a lot of terrible things—even she knew that—but this wasn’t one of them.

If Adora wanted to die, she could die. Catra wouldn’t stop her. But Catra _would_ give Horde Prime the information he needed and bargain her way to safety—

Except that—

_“Do one good thing in your life.”_

The words rang in her ears like a curse—like an insult—even though she knew what they were. A plea for help. A plea for Catra’s help. Catra, of all people, who had never done anything but hurt.

One good thing.

What did Catra know of that word? _Good._ All her life she’d been abused and betrayed and subjugated. What did she know, except the worst things imaginable? Why was she obligated to be better than the things she knew, the things that had hurt her endlessly? She’d grown up in the Horde, for god’s sake—there wasn’t a shred of good to be found in a place like that.

Except that there was, once. She knew that. She’d _felt_ that. The one good thing she’d ever had...even if it had refused to stay for long.

The hand that took hers without hesitation. The pair of arms that shielded her from any threat, any bully. The eyes that looked at her like she was someone worth loving, someone who meant the world.

And the mouth that spoke so many things. Assurances, encouragements, promises that couldn’t be kept. There was one sentence, in particular, she found herself remembering most fondly. Not a promise, exactly. But a statement.

_“I’m always gonna be your friend.”_

She missed it, even now. That patch of golden sky—that horizon drenched in sunrise.

It had no place here, floating in the endless darkness of space. Or between the walls of this ship, so austere and sterile.

And yet it was coming anyway.

Coming, unless Catra stopped it. Stopped her.

* * *

## everything

Catra knew she’d have only seconds to get this right—to shove Glimmer in the teleporter before the clones caught them both.

Alarms were flashing red all around them. Time was slipping, sprinting away in the blinking of those crimson lights, and she was terrifyingly certain that this would be it—her final set of moments, her last defining act.

Between Catra and Glimmer, only one of them would survive. Catra knew that. She’d spied on Prime’s transport system enough to understand how it worked—that someone had to operate the teleporter, and someone else had to be inside of it.

Catra couldn’t be the latter. Catra wasn’t the one that Adora was trying to save.

So she’d have to be the former. The person left behind, so Glimmer could escape.

There’d be no running after this, for Catra. No way out. Whatever punishments Horde Prime inflicted upon Catra after this betrayal—she’d have to be ready to accept them.

But blame would be a small price to pay. She couldn’t wait to see it—to see Horde Prime’s smug smile wiped away, exchanged for disbelieving outrage. How humiliating it would be for him, to watch his careful planning so completely upended by the actions of one tiny, insignificant Etherian.

And, of course, her biggest goal was the most important: to keep Adora from dying aboard this ship. To keep her from dying in the same way Catra was destined to.

Ideally, he’d kill Catra. Less ideally, he’d torture her the same way he’d tortured Hordak, and then kill her. But no matter how he punished her, no matter how he sought to make her pay, there would be nothing for him to gain. Glimmer’s escape would allow Adora to retreat to safety. And it’s not like tormenting Catra would scare the rebellion into compliance. If anything, the rebellion would be all-too-happy to celebrate Catra’s agonizing demise.

So Catra’s death would hurt exactly no one. But her sacrifice…her sacrifice might save a lot of people. One, in particular, who might go on to save so many others.

It was the right thing to do. Right, not in the way she’d always wanted to be—superior, correct, one-step-ahead. But right in the way she should have been all along: Selfless. Noble. _Good._ The way Adora always was.

This was all she had left. This one thing—this last thing, this good thing—and then she’d be finished, forever. Unable to hurt anyone or anything ever again.

“What are you doing?” Glimmer asked, pressing her hands against the shield that surrounded her—the one that had closed around her upon entering the teleporter.

But Catra could hear it in her voice. They both knew what she was doing—who would survive this, and who wouldn’t.

“What does it look like?” Catra said impatiently. Because really, she didn’t need this now. She didn’t need pity from a princess who’d always been destined to hate her, just like all the rest. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Catra’s fingers swept across the controls. She’d only deciphered a few critical commands by spying on the clones that were sent to this room, and she could only hope that her memory proved accurate.

Her first priority was to get the doors closed. That command, at least, was fairly simple—it seemed that Horde Prime’s security system was nearly identical to the Horde’s on Etheria.

Glimmer’s voice was small as she said: “Are you—are you saving me?”

She still asked, despite knowing—though Catra couldn’t exactly blame her. It’s a fairly irregular occurrence—watching an enemy die for you—so she supposed Glimmer was entitled to her disbelief.

“Not you,” Catra said, shaking her head. “Adora.”

Unforgiving, blue-gray eyes flashed across her mind’s eye, but there was no time for that—no time for anything. Just this, just the clack of this glowing keyboard and the emptying of the hourglass, each moment disappearing faster than the last.

“Even if I sent her a message to stay away, she’d still come for you,” Catra said. “That’s just how she is.”

She had once entertained the thought that Adora was selfish for leaving her behind. But she knew it wasn’t true—had _always_ known it wasn’t true, even from the very start. Nearly all of Catra’s most successful military strategies had, in fact, relied on Adora’s incurable altruism—altruism that Catra did not share, and therefore, could leverage to her advantage.

Though she wouldn’t let Horde Prime use it now. Catra’s old strategy, her old advantage. This time, Catra wouldn’t allow Adora to die simply for being kind.

The clones were banging on the doors now, and she could hear them—their bodies straining with effort as they yanked open a gap, bit by bit. She thought that she’d have more time than this, a few more minutes, but those clones were stronger than she’d anticipated—

“What about you?”

Glimmer was looking at Catra with disbelief. With that pity Catra didn’t need. But for once Catra allowed it—she allowed herself to feel sorry for herself, and for someone to feel sorry for her. It was the last time it would ever happen, after all.

“Me?” Catra looked down at the controls and allowed herself a moment. A moment to remember the worst thing she had ever done.

_“Catra, please,” cried Adora’s voice. “Don’t!”_

But Catra hadn’t listened. Catra had opened the portal, determined to destroy them both, rather than accept that she’d been wrong. Lonely, and hurt, and so, so wrong.

“All I do is hurt people,” Catra said. “There’s no one left in the entire universe who cares about me.”

She could practically feel Glimmer searching for something comforting to say, but there was nothing. They both knew it to be true. And that only made Catra all the more determined to do this, to make this save, to be helpful for once in her life—

The clones had pried open the doors. Any minute now, they’d be bearing down upon her—

Adora’s ship was too old to be tracked, but somehow Prime had located it—tracing its fuel signatures within a particular quadrant, even if he couldn’t find its exact coordinates. That was fine. That was enough. But Catra would still need to communicate with her—with Adora—so that she knew what was happening and where to go.

She blasted a transmission to the entire quadrant, hoping that Adora would pick up. That she’d listen. But she didn’t even know if that old ship had a means of detecting these kinds of signals—

But then she saw an indicator light begin to blink, and knew that someone out there was listening.

“Adora?” she called, praying that it wasn’t some random alien transport receiving her message.

Static. And then—

_“Catra?”_

The sound of her own name, half-gasped like that, cost Catra a critical moment of hesitation. Truthfully, she’d never thought she’d hear Adora’s voice again. Not after being taken aboard this ship. Not after the worst of Catra’s mistakes.

It was easy to picture her. Adora, saying her name like that. The expression on her face. Her utter confusion and disbelief. Her suspicion. And she was right to be wary, right to fear the worst. If Adora had learned anything from the recent past, she probably feared that Catra was calling to trick or bait her.

But still, there was something else there too, in Adora’s voice—an edge of concern, however slight. Though perhaps Catra was imagining that.

It would be better, she decided, if she were imagining that.

“Don’t sound so happy to hear me,” Catra said. And then she was smiling, for some unfathomable reason. Smiling—with no reason to smile whatsoever. The clones were almost inside the room, there was nothing to smile about. She was about to die, and so was Glimmer if she didn’t do this quickly, and correctly, and _soon._

“I’m sending Glimmer to you,” Catra continued, “I don’t know your exact location, but I can get her to your quadrant. You have to be there to catch her.”

She could hear Adora sputtering across the communication line, hardly comprehending a word. _“Wait, wait, wait—what? What’s going on?_ _Glimmer is with you?”_

Catra heard the guttural yell of a clone and the squeal of reversing machinery. A brief glance revealed what was happening—that the clones had pushed their way past the door and were clamoring straight for her.

“We don’t have time,” Catra said, clacking out the final set of commands. “You need to get to these coordinates _now.”_

And never had she said anything truer. There was no time for what Catra wanted more than anything, in that moment. To say goodbye. To make amends. To feel as though Adora cared about her in any capacity at all.

But there wasn’t time. Even if Catra had an eternity of time, it would never be enough. Never be enough to correct her mistakes. Never be enough to make Adora care, not in the way Catra wanted her to.

Clones were bounding toward her, within arm’s reach now. Catra was prepared to fight—

“Don’t come here, no matter what! Horde Prime is ready for you!”

Catra struck out a fist and barely managed to knock a clone unconscious with the force of the blow. But she knew it was futile—that no amount of fighting would protect her forever. There were too many of them, too many clones, a pile of mindless bodies with one target in mind.

But Glimmer would run. Glimmer would escape. Catra had entered the coordinates. All she needed to do was reach a little farther—reach, and activate the machine. And then Glimmer would be sent far away, far from this place. Toward somewhere better, a place where Adora would be waiting for her—

A different clone took Catra’s knee to his stomach and fell to the floor. Two more were coming. Two that she wouldn’t be able to fend off by herself.

 _“Catra, I don’t understand_ ,” came Adora’s voice, near-frantic with confusion. _“What is—?”_

The clones had Catra by the arms. And she knew she wasn’t imagining it now, the concern in Adora’s voice. Adora knew something was happening—something bad, something final and irreversible—and yet, even after Catra’s worst moments, Adora was still afraid for her. Not of her, but _for_ her.

And it was only then that Catra found the resolve to do it—to do the one thing she swore she never would. The one thing that mattered.

“Just listen!” Catra screamed, desperate to release a few more words into the speaker, before it was all over, before Horde Prime dragged her away from this—from life, and all that it entailed. _“Adora—!”_

It felt like a sob, the way Adora’s name tore its way out of her throat. Catra was half-blind with tears, her whole body shaking as she strained against the clones’ hold on her—

“I’m sorry!” Catra cried, praying that Adora heard her. That Adora understood that this was goodbye, goodbye in the most lasting sense of the word. And never had two words felt so immense, like she was trying to cram a lifetime’s apologies into the span of three finite syllables. “For _everything!”_

It took all of Catra’s strength to make that final effort—the one that would ultimately wrench her hand from the clone’s grip and send it flying toward the controls. All she needed to do was hit the button, just one lousy, tiny button—

And then it was over. The whole room shone with phosphorescence—glowing a vivid green as Glimmer began to fade from existence.

The last thing Catra heard as the clones smashed her face into the controls was a single word. Her own name, called by Glimmer, before Glimmer dissipated into thin air.

Catra wished it was Adora’s voice that she’d heard. But it was Catra’s own skull that destroyed the speaker, crushing that impossibly fragile link to Adora into silence.

* * *

## grown

Adora hums as she threads her fingers through Catra’s hair.

Catra blinks up at her, bathing half-drunk in two entirely different types of warmth: the lurid glare of the sun, and the softer, infinitely kinder glow of Adora’s smile.

Nothing in the universe could force her from this spot, from this small pocket of perfection—not monsters, not magic, not armies or the would-be tyrants that lead them. This, Catra is quite certain, is exactly where she belongs. Sprawled in the grass, her head cushioned in Adora’s lap with nothing to do, no one to fight—just the two of them right here, lazing away the hours until the sun collapses into the horizon.

“I like this length,” Adora tells her idly, still twisting her hands between the thick and wild strands. Strands that have finally grown long enough to reach Catra’s shoulders.

Catra closes her eyes again, lost in the careless sensation of Adora’s touch. “I thought you liked me with short hair,” she murmurs in reply.

Though she can’t see it, Catra can practically feel Adora’s exasperated eyeroll. “I like you with any type of hair,” Adora says, as if nothing else could be more obvious. “I like you, period.”

 _“What?”_ Catra mock-gasps, feigning disbelief. “You _like_ me?”

It’s an old joke, but it’s still one of Catra’s favorites.

“I know,” Adora says—voice dancing with amusement as she disentangles her fingers from Catra’s hair. “That is so embarrassing for me.”

“Very,” Catra agrees. Then she sends both hands upwards, reaching blindly for Adora’s sun-soaked face, somewhere above her.

Adora only laughs for a moment—at Catra’s sightless pursuit of something to hold—and then very graciously places her own cheeks within Catra’s grasp. Together, they guide Adora’s head downwards, shrinking the space between their lips until there’s nothing left of it at all.

It’s a sloppy, slow, upside-down sort of kiss, but it might also be the best one Catra’s ever had.

“See?” Catra whispers sometime later, chasing Adora’s lips as they retreat from hers. “Relaxing can be fun.”

Adora hums again. “I never should have doubted you.”

* * *

## sacrifice

Catra stared down at a pool of green liquid. It smelled foul—like something corrosive. Something that would burn her skin right from her bones.

But it wouldn’t. Catra knew that. Catra had _seen_ that, when Hordak was "purified" in the same pool.

It would be welcome at this point—murder by way of acid. But she knew that Horde Prime would grant no such mercy. If he wanted her dead, he would have disposed of her days ago.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Catra thought. Because she _should_ be dead. That was all she had—this idea of a noble sacrifice. The thought of that one good thing, and the assurance that it would never end up within Horde Prime’s grasp.

But still, she’d managed to screw that up. She was still alive. Catra was _still_ alive, no matter how much she wished otherwise—

And Adora…

Adora was still coming.

“You’ll be happy to know,” Horde Prime had told her, smiling broadly as he gestured to his glowing screens, “that the Etherian ship has changed course yet again.”

Catra’s nerves turned to ice at the sight of that ship—Adora’s ship, recklessly hurtling to the heart of Horde Prime’s empire yet again. It was devastating—infuriating. How could this still happen, despite Catra’s best efforts? How had Catra’s sacrifice achieved absolutely nothing?

But as she continued staring at the ship, watching it travel ever-closer, a spineless, secret, petty part of her began to feel something else. Relief. Catra felt relief, knowing that Adora was on her way.

Because, really, there was only one reason why that ship—and the person aboard it—would travel to this deadly section of space. Only one impossible, unbelievable, _illogical_ reason.

Catra. Adora was coming for Catra. Coming to rescue her, to save her, despite everything. Despite the worst of Catra’s mistakes and betrayals, despite Catra’s pleas for her to stay away, Adora simply would not be dissuaded from this course. Adora was still ready to lay down her life for the slightest chance that Catra might live—

But that couldn’t be. It _shouldn’t_ be. Catra wasn’t worth it—she wasn’t worth Adora’s sacrifice. Hadn’t Catra sacrificed herself to prevent this very thing—this stupidly self-destructive act of loyalty? Because Catra didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve loyalty, and she didn’t deserve Adora. Not Adora’s life, not her sacrifice, not even the briefest of Adora’s thoughts—

And still, a desperate sort of hope flickered somewhere in Catra’s chest when she thought about it. About Adora. About Adora, coming for her. Could it really happen? Could Adora truly be coming to rescue her from this place, this place that promised to kill and torture her?

It was all Catra wanted to imagine. Adora, taking Catra by the hand, yanking her aboard that old ship and whisking her to safety, to Etheria, to _home._ It was so clear in her mind’s eye, too. The concern in that blue-gray stare, the relief painted across Adora’s features upon finding Catra unharmed. The feel of Adora’s arms enclosing her, pulling her into the warmest embrace she had ever known, whispering promises of a future beyond this ship, beyond death and pain and the apocalypse still awaiting them on Etheria.

It was the only comfort she had, imagining that.

But it was also a delusion.

Adora wasn’t going to save her. Adora was doomed, just as Catra was.

And Catra had been especially foolish to think she’d be left unharmed when Adora arrived.

It started with a room—a cold, empty room that Catra had never seen before, filled with nothing but a single chair. Catra waited there for hours, maddening herself with the sight of those blank walls. She couldn’t fathom why Horde Prime had imprisoned her in such a bare, uninteresting location. It didn’t seem to be his style of torture—boring Catra to death.

Though her boredom soon came to an abrupt end. The door slid open, revealing a single clone brandishing, of all things, a knife. A particularly wicked-looking knife, in fact—one that glinted menacingly in the stark white overhead lights.

Catra didn’t even protest as he approached her—only stared with an appraising gaze, wondering what had caused Horde Prime to change his mind so suddenly. Had he really kept her alive so long only to stab her now?

Not that Catra was complaining. A stabbing would be a quicker end than she had hoped for.

And so, as the clone grew closer, Catra only prayed that he had decent aim. Decent enough, at least, to hit something vital on the first try. The last thing Catra needed was a prolonged, painful death resulting from several days’ worth of blood loss.

But he didn’t do it. He didn’t stab her. He didn’t plunge that knife into anything vital—didn’t even let it touch her skin.

No, he did something much, much worse.

He twisted his hands into Catra’s hair, and began to cut.

Catra screeched as bunches of her hair fell to the floor. Screeched, and swung out a claw. The clone stumbled backward, releasing her hair so that he could clutch at his bleeding eye, but Catra paid him no mind. She was too busy feeling blindly for the strands that had been cut, frantic to assess the damage in absence of a mirror.

Some distance away, the knife clattered to the floor, and Catra prayed that was the end of it. That this absurd attempt at a haircut had been effectively thwarted, and that the clones had better things to do than try again.

But of course that prayer went unanswered, just like all the rest.

It wasn’t long before a dozen more clones rushed inside the room. They were swift and coordinated as they seized Catra’s arms and legs, holding her steady and immobile while a new, intact clone picked up the knife and continued cutting away at Catra’s hair.

She screamed and scratched all the while. Screamed until her throat was raw, scratched until her hands were slippery with blood.

Because really, if they were smart, they would have cut her nails first—not her hair. Even now, as they held her down, she’d managed to sink her claws into at least two of them, her nails biting deeply into their flesh.

But these clones didn’t react like the last one, who’d dropped his knife and fled. They only continued holding Catra down, waiting patiently for the clone with the knife to finish cutting through the rest of her hair.

Her neck was the only muscle she could move, pinned beneath clones like she was. And so she looked down, at what had once been a clean white floor. A floor that had since been coated in a thick carpet of hair—a carpet that only grew as Catra watched.

Why, why, _why_ were they doing this? What was the point, what was to be gained? Did Horde Prime really hate Catra’s hair so much that he felt compelled to cut it all away before Adora’s arrival?

Though she could admit that there was something especially terrifying about this sensation—this feeling of being held down as strangers proceeded to cut bits of her away.

She wished she could see herself, at least. See what they’d done to her. She was owed a mirror if they were going to take her hair from her.

But the clones cared little about what Catra felt she was owed. When the deed was done—when the hair was gone—they didn’t leave her alone to examine the result for herself. They only grabbed her by the arms and dragged her here, to the pool.

Catra had never liked water, and she was especially wary of the green, “purifying” variety. But even as she distanced herself from the edge, Catra managed to catch a glimpse of herself in that sparkling, sickly green surface.

With her hair cut this short, she hardly recognized her own reflection. And it was an idle sort of observation—that she seemed to look something like them, like the clones that had gathered all around her.

An idle observation, at least... until it froze the blood in her veins.

He’d kept her alive. He’d cut her hair. And yet he’d refused to clip away her nails—her most effective weapon.

And now he’d brought her here. To this pool. This pool that had wiped Hordak’s memories clean—

And that was when the realization struck her. No, not struck. _Stabbed._ Stabbed her in the way she’d prayed that knife would.

Because Horde Prime wasn’t going to kill Adora. He didn’t need to, didn’t even want to.

Why would he dirty his hands...when Catra could do it for him?

And what a terrible irony it would be—for Adora to die at the hands of the person she was coming to save. It would be Catra’s finest betrayal yet. Her cruelest, most unforgivable act. Proof that even at her noblest, Catra couldn’t keep herself from causing Adora pain.

Catra fell backward, scrambling, _crawling_ away from the pool and the power that held. She couldn’t let it happen, couldn’t let herself get mind wiped, lobotomized, purified, _whatever._ She’d provoke one of the clones, force them to kill her instead. But not this, she wouldn’t do this, she wouldn’t let her body be used like a puppet—

When Horde Prime arrived, he only smiled mildly at Catra’s frantic attempts to escape. At her shrieking, stumbling, climbing over clones. How ridiculous she must have seemed to him, still seeking that infeasible escape, still searching for that miraculous way out.

“Now, now, little sister. There is nothing to fear,” he chided, still watching her struggle with great amusement.

Catra was scratching, screaming, swiping at everything within reach, but it was no use. There were so many of them, too many clones, all of them reaching for her, grabbing her.

If there was ever a time for Adora to arrive—to stage a rescue—now was it. This was the last chance for either of them, their last chance to rescue each other. If she didn’t do it now, right now, neither of them would survive this, survive _him_ —

But there was nothing. No one. Adora was too far but not far enough. And that was the nature of their relationship, wasn’t it? An ever-growing list of _too lates_ and _almosts_ and _not enoughs._ Contradictions upon contradictions, hatred and love and a million other emotions all mixing in the same pot of resentment and attachment and confusion.

This would happen. This would destroy them both.

But she did try. Catra wanted Adora to know that. That she tried until the very end.

But it was easy, far too easy, for the clones to yank Catra back toward the pool. For a moment she teetered on the edge, lurching from side to side, her whole body threatening to plunge into the water. But no, not yet, balance was Catra’s whole thing, she could do this, keep herself from falling in—

She sighed in relief as she secured her footing. She could still do this, she could still make it out—

Or that was what she thought, anyway, right until a clone grabbed her shoulders and simply _pushed._

And then she fell, and hoped to drown.

If the water smelled foul from afar, it was especially disgusting as it entered Catra’s nostrils. Hissing and acrid, like concentrated ozone. There was nothing natural, nothing soothing about it.

Though the smell was not the worst part—not nearly. The water _burned._ Burned like flames instead of liquid, growing hotter with every second of prolonged contact.

And that was when Catra felt the jolt of electricity. A lightning strike that reverberated through the water, slicing white-hot pain through each and every one of Catra’s nerves. Her skin sizzled with static. Her breath vaporized in her lungs. And then that scorching current had seized her entire body, confining her to nothing but stilted convulsions and paralysis.

That should’ve been everything—the full extent of the damage this pool could inflict. But no matter how it grew—the pain, the spasms, the burning—it still kept expanding, kept intensifying. A torture beyond description, beyond comprehension.

Memories emerged amidst Catra’s pain-induced delirium. Hadn’t Shadow Weaver once possessed this same power through the Black Garnet? Hadn’t Shadow Weaver so often used electricity to torment Catra into compliance?

Catra had always escaped in the end, but right now she couldn’t remember how she’d managed it. What was the secret? How had she survived this torture so many times before—

But then she remembered. Adora. It had always been Adora. She had always managed to calm Shadow Weaver’s rages before any permanent damage was done.

Adora, who was still lightyears away.

All other senses faded to nothing. She couldn’t even hear the scream tearing itself from her own lungs, only feel it—only feel the tireless release of air and the shattering collision of her own vocal chords.

Catra was certain she would die from this. It would be better, she thought, if she died from this, rather than suffer a single additional moment of it—

But then she felt a sudden release—a hand reaching into the water to rescue her, to pull her away from this agony.

Catra then found herself on the floor, surrounded by dry white tiles. Green liquid clung to her—dripped from her body—but there was little she could do except cough and pant, spewing water all across the ground. She knew she should be running—pressing the advantage of this unexpected reprieve. But her limbs were too leaden to move, still too paralyzed by that hum of residual static.

She half-expected to be tossed back into the water—back into the jaws of that terrible, monstrous pain. But no one moved her. No one touched her.

An absurd sort of hope coursed through Catra, then—about what, or rather _who,_ had rescued her from the pool.

But when she looked up, she was sorely disappointed.

It wasn’t Adora, or Adora’s friends, or even Hordak taking pity on her. It was only Horde Prime, grinning down at Catra with the smuggest possible satisfaction.

“I hope you realize now,” he says—his voice mockingly gentle. “That no one defies my will. Not without suffering the consequences.”

But Catra didn’t understand. Why had he pulled her out? Why could she still remember so much about everything—about Shadow Weaver and Adora and everything in between? It was supposed to wipe her mind, this torture. But now that it was finished, Catra couldn’t identify a single gap in her memory.

It was a blessing and a curse, she supposed. To recall every terrible act, every heartbreaking moment, same as before. But they were hers. They were her memories—the building blocks of Catra’s entire being.

“It didn’t work,” Catra murmured, more to herself than to Horde Prime. “I still remember it all—”

“You’ve misunderstood me, little sister,” Horde Prime said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Only some of my brothers are purified by forgetting their past. You, on the other hand...”

Horde Prime reached down. And at first, Catra thought he was reaching for her face—that was something he enjoyed doing, after all. Touching those who didn’t wish to be touched. It was yet another display of power—his way of demonstrating that he could do anything he wished, hold anything he wanted, without the slightest consequence.

“You must overcome it. This past, this pain that plagues you so. Only then will you be purified. Only then will your shadows—and the shadows that cling to Etheria—be cast out forever.”

But instead, his hand went elsewhere. Clasping around the back of Catra’s now-exposed neck, his nails digging deeply into her freshly-burned skin.

“So rest assured, little sister. I shall make great use of your memories. I trust they will be quite informative when I finally meet her. Your Adora. Your _She-Ra_ .”

* * *

## fair

“So…” Adora says, dipping her chin over Catra’s shoulder. “How long—exactly—have you had a crush on me?”

“Depends,” replies Catra. She taps a finger against her own chin in a teasing sort of contemplation. “How long have you had a crush on _me?”_

Adora’s eyes narrow. “I asked you first.”

“So?”

For a moment, they merely sit there—glaring at each other, trapped within a stalemate. But Catra won’t do it. She won’t humiliate herself like this unless Adora does it first. It’s only fair, after all. Catra was the first to admit the damn crush, she shouldn’t have to be the first to explain it too—

But then, in a flash of light, it’s not just Adora sitting beside Catra on the edge of the bed. It’s She-Ra. Shimmering, tall, muscular, _absurdly beautiful_ She-Ra, wrapping her arms around Catra in a truly unbreakable embrace. Catra can only squirm and shriek as Adora flops backwards, dragging them both downwards on the bed.

“That’s—not—fair!” Catra complains, shoving a palm into Adora’s face. She can feel Adora grinning excessively beneath her hand.

“C’mon, Catra, just tell me!”

“No! You tell me!”

Adora begins to pout. “Pretty please?”

Catra squirms for a few more seconds—legs flailing—but it’s clear that she’s not going anywhere. Not while She-Ra is holding her, anyway.

Catra releases an enormous groan. “Alright, alright, fine!” she yells. “I’ll tell you, okay? But only if you put the big sword lady away.”

That makes Adora smile again. And—much to Catra’s horror—waggle her eyebrows in a very annoyingly suggestive way. “But I thought you _liked_ the big sword lady...”

“Not while she’s crushing my lungs,” hisses Catra.

“Okay, okay, breathe easy. I’ll put She-Ra away.”

And then, in another flash of light, Catra feels the arms around her torso release.

Catra scrambles to an upright position as the magic fades from Adora’s body. They’re sitting side by side again, and Catra’s blushing, but more than anything she is determined to not look Adora in the eyes while she admits this—

“The answer’s not gonna impress you or anything,” Catra says, speaking toward the floor. “Looking back, the crush probably started a little while after we first met. But I didn’t realize what it was until much later, when we were teenagers. Probably around fourteen or something.” She shoots Adora an impatient sort of look. “Happy?”

Adora only looks confused. “Why fourteen?”

Catra smirks. “You were tall.”

“Seriously, that’s it? I was _tall?”_

And then Catra is shoving her palm back into Adora’s face. “Yes. You were tall, and pretty, and smart. And also the kindest person I’d ever met. You were basically the most perfect person in existence. Now is that enough for you, you big dummy?”

“So you did think I was pretty!” says Adora, triumphant. “I knew it! You were _such_ a brat about that.”

“Well, what about you?” Catra demands. “When did you realize? You have to tell me too, it’s only fair—”

She’s quiet for a few moments after that. Adora. Gnawing on her lower lip as she tries to recall.

“You were always cute,” Adora says finally, glancing at Catra with a sheepish grin. “And I knew I liked being around you.”

Catra rolls her eyes. “Oh gee, you liked being _around_ me? Real flattering, thanks—”

“What I mean,” Adora continues loudly, trying to drown out Catra’ complaints, “is that I liked being close to you. I liked it when we shared the same bed, or when you wrapped your arms around me, or when we’d hold hands. You were pretty and rebellious and did whatever you wanted. I always wished I was more like you.”

“You wanted to be like _me?”_ Catra shakes her head in utter disbelief. “No. No way. You’re lying.”

“It’s true!” Adora insists. “You never listened to anybody, never let anyone walk over you. You weren’t afraid to break the rules. Everyone thought you were so cool—”

“They did not! All the other cadets totally hated me—”

“Nuh-uh,” says Adora, shaking her head. “People were intimidated by you, maybe. But you were also the most notorious prankster in the entire Horde, so of course some people got mad—”

“You pulled those pranks right along with me!”

“Yeah,” Adora says, laughing. “But everyone knew they were your idea.”

Catra crosses her arms. “Alright, fine. So I was a cute little troublemaker. But—” she knocks her shoulder against Adora’s, “—nothing you’re describing sounds like a crush.”

Adora rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know what a crush was, Catra. Not until…”

She trails off, and Catra raises a curious eyebrow. “Not until what?”

“Not until I was in Bright Moon,” Adora tells her. She won’t stop staring at her hands. “I was given my own room and it felt—I don’t know—really wrong, somehow. Being there without you. Like I was missing a piece of myself.”

“So you missed cuddling with me?”

Catra intended it to be a joke, but Adora clearly doesn’t see it that way. She shakes her head fiercely and keeps on biting at her own lip.

“It was more than that,” Adora says. “The Horde only wanted ‘Force Captain Adora’ because she’d help them destroy the rebellion. And when I joined the rebellion, people only wanted She-Ra because they thought she’d destroy the Horde.”

She looks up at Catra, then. And it’s a soft look. A grateful look.

“But it didn’t matter to you. It didn’t matter what I could or couldn’t do. You always just wanted me to be there, to be with you. And sleeping alone in that bed...I just wanted to be with you again. I wanted to hold you and hear your laugh and—” Adora sighs. “I missed you all the time. And I think that’s when I realized that I wasn’t just missing my best friend. That I was missing something more than that—”

Adora pauses all of a sudden, staring at Catra in shock. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up!” Catra snaps, swiping at her eyes, which are, in fact, damper than she’d prefer. “It’s just embarrassing, is all.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Yeah. It’s embarrassing that my girlfriend is such a complete and total sap.”

“And what? It’s better to love someone because she’s _tall?”_ Adora says indignantly, putting air quotations around the final word. “You are so emotionally constipated, I swear—”

“We were both emotionally constipated, if you don’t remember,” Catra interrupts her. “Not that the Horde ever helped us understand anything we were feeling.”

They fall silent, after that. Recalling all the moments they could’ve said something—anything—and put out so many fires before they were lit, before they grew out of control and nearly destroyed Etheria.

Adora scoots backward on the bed so she can pull her knees up to her chin.

“You know what’s really unfair?” Adora says. “That _he_ knew before we did. Horde Prime. He knew exactly how we felt about each other.”

Catra chuckles somewhat bitterly. “I might’ve had something to do with that.”

“Well, yeah. You tried to sacrifice yourself for me.”

“Sure, there was that. But there were also other things.”

Adora squints at her. “Like what?”

“Well, he had access to Hordak’s memories,” Catra says with another shrug. “So he knew that we were close, once. And of course, once he got my memories, it was all over.”

“Oh,” Adora says. “Well, I mean, I figured as much—”

“Plus,” Catra mumbles, blushing yet again. “He had all these sensors trained on me. And I guess looking at you raises my heart rate, or something.”

Adora raises a single eyebrow. This, evidently, is new information to her. “Does it now?”

* * *

## mirror

Being chipped was like being trapped on the wrong side of a mirror.

Catra wasn’t the one moving those arms, speaking those words. She was only carried along, forced to mimic whatever that strange, green-eyed version of herself chose to do. But she wasn’t asleep by any means. The whole time she knew, she saw, she _heard_ everything, watching from behind the glass.

The wrong side of the glass was a strange place. There was no one around, but she could hear voices whispering—could see images and shadows dancing along the walls. But it was all jumbled and nonsensical to her, too chaotic to properly comprehend.

There were odd moments of freedom, too. Moments when the Other Catra would turn her back, or move out of frame. And only then could Catra pound on the glass—screaming, crying for release.

Sometimes, if she fought very hard, she could beat a few cracks into that smooth, cold surface. Tiny cracks—none of them wider than a strand of Catra’s hair, or a fine piece of thread.

Catra had practically covered that mirror with marks by now. With scratches and miniscule fractures. But no matter how much damage she inflicted, no matter how she scraped her nails into that glass, it never went deep enough. It seemed that no number of blows, no amount of force could break it apart. Not in any way that would allow Catra to return to the other side.

The other side…

That was where Adora was. Adora, with those pretty blue-gray eyes and that silly poofed-up ponytail. She looked the same as ever. It was incredible—unbelievable, really—that no matter how the world grew or shook or crumbled, Adora never seemed to change. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.

Though there was something new about her. Something Catra had never seen before. It took her a second to identify it—the new feature or facet that caught her eye, that confused her.

It was Adora’s expression. That was different, that was new.

Catra thought she’d memorized them by now—all the possible arrangements of Adora’s features. All the smiles and scowls and everything in between. But this wasn’t something Catra recognized. This wasn’t the affection that Catra had lost, nor was it the hatred that she’d earned. It was something else. Something unfamiliar.

It was horror. Unmistakable, abject horror.

But how else could Adora react to this monstrous reflection of Catra made real?

And maybe that was the worst part. Seeing Adora right there, so close, so near. She’d traveled all this way—lightyears upon lightyears—and here she finally was. Right here, on Horde Prime’s ship. Hoping, waiting, _reaching_ for Catra.

But no matter how she tried, Catra couldn’t reach back. The glass was too thick. Too unyielding. The whispers, too—they were so loud. Talking about Etheria and intruders and conquests of planets that Catra had never heard of—

But the Other Catra…she could reach all she wanted. Reach and tear and _slash._ And Catra would have no choice but to move, to mimic. No choice but to let it happen, to let herself destroy this one person she still cared about. This one person who still cared about Catra too, despite logic and right and wrong—

Not like this. Catra didn’t want it to end like this.

“Catra!” Adora yelled, somewhere in the distance. “You have to fight it!”

But it was like listening to a conversation through a wall. She couldn’t reply, couldn’t even hear it clearly above all the noise.

She saw the Other Catra reaching for Adora’s face. The fingers brushed Adora’s cheek, but Catra didn’t feel a thing. Not a shred of warmth. Not the smoothness of Adora’s skin. Catra’s nerves were nothing but static, nothing but white noise.

On the other side, Adora was crying.

She knew that Horde Prime was saying something—something that Catra couldn’t hear. He was angry, gloating—grasping too tightly at the chip on Catra’s neck. Something about his grip made Catra’s reflection flicker. Flicker, and then disappear. And without her, Catra was suddenly free to move, free continue the assault on the barrier that stood before her—

But Adora was still there, on the other side. Adora was staring at Catra—staring as though she could see through the glass—her eyes pleading and praying for Catra, the real Catra, to listen.

Catra pounded against the barrier with both fists. Pounded and pounded, pulverising her knuckles to fragments, and she’d nearly made it—the biggest crack yet, just big enough to poke her pinky through…

But it wasn’t enough. Catra felt herself seized by those invisible puppet strings yet again, the whispering swelling like the roar of a wave. Her rogue reflection had returned, it seemed. And this time, she’d extended her claws.

And what else could Catra do except mimic the exact same?

It wasn’t pretty—the fistfight that ensued. The Other Catra swung her knuckles, thrust out her legs with ruthless precision, never hesitating to pull at Adora’s hair, or sink her claws into Adora’s scalp.

Adora was fast, though. Fast enough to defend herself, even without She-Ra’s immense strength. A miraculous combination of wits and speed allowed Adora to grab the Other Catra by the arm, bending her over in an immobilizing hold.

The Other Catra flickered yet again, and Catra was free enough to press her ear to that pinky-sized hole. She needed to hear, needed to know—

“Catra, listen to me,” Adora pleaded, arms shaking from the effort of holding the Other Catra at bay. “I know you’re still in there. I’m not leaving without you.”

Catra wanted to laugh. Did Adora truly think she would leave this place? That either of them would escape? They were going to die here, the both of them. Adora, beneath Catra’s claws. And Catra, suffocating on the other side of this mirror.

“It’s gonna be okay—”

But then the Other Catra was doing something unnatural—dislocating her own joints, bending her own muscles backwards to escape Adora’s hold.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Catra should’ve been in agony, twisting her body like that. But still she felt nothing. Only static, only whispering. She was numb and trapped, same as ever.

The Other Catra, on the other hand, had freed herself enough to renew her attacks, and she was quick to settle on her first target: Adora’s thigh. It was easy, too easy, to simply sink in her claws into that patch of flesh and yank. 

Adora shrieked and whimpered as the pant leg tore. Blood oozed onto the floor as the Other Catra pressed up close to her, slinging her arms over Adora’s shoulders while trailing knife-sharp nails along her neck.

Catra wanted to tell Adora to run—to give up, to stop trying to appeal to Catra’s reason. There was nothing to be reasoned with, nothing at all. Only a cold, thoughtless barrier and the Catra-looking _thing_ on the other side. Catra wanted to change it. Really, she did. But she was helpless. She was trapped. And Adora was too, she just didn’t realize it yet—

Adora screamed as she tossed Catra’s body over her shoulder, sending her tumbling head-over-tail toward Horde Prime’s throne. Only vaguely did Catra register that it should hurt—smashing into solid metal like that. But she was so empty of sensation, so devoid of tactile awareness. Surely this too would be numb and painless, dulled by those hushed voices that whispered in her ears—

But she was wrong. For the first time since being chipped, Catra felt something—a burst of pain at the back of her neck, a soreness tingling all across her spine. And it was a relief, of sorts. To feel something—anything—even for a moment.

But it was exactly that—a moment. A moment that passed like any other, vanishing to a point beyond retrieval, beyond remembrance.

“Snap out of it, Catra!” Adora cried. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

If only it were that easy, Catra thought. If only she could break that glass, that barrier, quiet the voices and find her way through...

But there wasn’t time. The Other Catra stood, prepared to grapple with Adora once more. And Catra, puppet that she was, had no choice but to stand with her.

The next barrage of attacks was the most brutal yet. Horde Prime used Catra’s body to its fullest, deadliest extent, lashing out at Adora with lunges and leaps, flying fists, slashing claws—each strike quicker than eyes could follow and reinforced with every particle of Catra’s strength.

The fight wasn’t remotely fair—not when Adora refused to hurt her in turn. Adora only dodged, only avoided, returning blows only when necessary and never with full power.

Though at one point, Adora had no choice but to shove the Other Catra away—thrusting deadly claws from the delicate skin of her face—and the force sent the Catra’s body stumbling toward the far side of the platform.

The Other Catra’s balance wavered on the edge, heels kissing open air, and Adora called out to her in terror, a hand outstretched to keep her from falling—

Evidently, the Other Catra found that funny. She only smiled and laughed at the darkness, at the chasm mere inches from her toes, and then leaned back, prepared to dive over the side—

Adora lunged forward, grabbing her by both arms, and Catra wanted to scream—to shriek at Adora to let her fall, to run as far as she could. But of course Adora wouldn’t. Of course Adora would pull Catra into an embrace, relieved to have saved her, completely unaware that Catra had been numbed to the barest pressure of her touch—let alone the full comfort of her arms.

It was a trap. Catra knew that only too well. Adora had exposed the most vulnerable part of her body—the advantage that Catra herself had pressed so many times.

Catra felt Adora’s cry of pain as if it were her own. A full hand of claws had sunk deeply into Adora’s back, and Catra could only watch her hand’s reflection as it pulled, as it tore, each finger drawing an agonizingly slow path through fabric and skin.

Though somehow even _that_ was a distraction. Adora was still recovering—still trying to swallow her own tears—when the Other Catra plunged a knee directly into Adora’s gut.

It was a cracking, breathless blow, and Adora went boneless with pain as a result. She was unable to resist as the Other Catra dragged her to the platform’s edge. Dragged her, and then, with unmistakable glee, dangled Adora right over the side.

Both Catra and Adora held their breaths, silent save the whispering in Catra’s ears. The Other Catra was talking, speaking words that Catra herself could not hear. It was strange to look at her. Difficult, even. Sometimes she looked like Catra. Other times, she looked like Horde Prime. A shimmer of his image, enclosing the reflection of Catra’s body.

And then Horde Prime said something, something that Adora clearly did not like. She released another mighty cry and rushed forward, crashing directly into Catra’s body—

Stars danced across Catra’s vision, suddenly—another terrible pain erupting at the back of her neck. There was something there...a current, a static, dancing all along her spine. It hurt so badly, but at least it felt like something, anything—

And for a moment it was all gone. The mirror, the voices, the distorted reflection of herself—even the strange visions darting across the walls. It was almost as though she had fallen from the ceiling, rejoining her body only through a jolting, bone-shattering collision with herself.

But Catra could feel it all, feel everything now—the grip on her arms, the breath gusting over her face. Every inch of her was throbbing in pain and crying for air. Yet no matter how it hurt, there was relief in feeling it all. This screeching of nerves was _hers_ and hers alone…

Catra glanced up and found her gaze parallel with Adora’s. Adora…with those hopeful, determined eyes. Eyes that welled with tears even now, as Catra watched.

All Catra wanted to do was _collapse,_ collapse into Adora, fall into her arms and be carried far from here. Far from this vicious section of the universe and the endless tortures it contained. Adora would do it, too. Adora would carry anyone and anything, so long as she was asked.

The thought should have been a comfort, but now Catra resisted it. Why was Adora doing this? Why had she come all this way? Catra hadn’t asked her to do this—she hadn’t asked Adora to tear herself to pieces in the vain hope that Catra could be saved.

All Catra had wanted was for Adora to stay away, to stay safe, to _stay_ in the most general sense of the word, even if that only meant staying beyond Horde Prime’s reach.

It had nearly destroyed her, that realization. The realization that some passions blazed too brightly to be properly distinguished from one another. That Catra had spent her whole life confusing empowerment for loneliness, hatred for love. They were so similar, all of them—all those emotions that glowed bright crimson and scalded to the touch. She’d been too afraid to look at any of them closely. Too afraid to wonder why, exactly, an empty bed and a broken promise had injured Catra more than any physical attack.

But she was powerless, now. And too exhausted to think, to wonder, to lie to herself. That exhaustive list of terrible acts, that singular fruitless sacrifice—it was all in pursuit of the same impossible goal: to never lose Adora—not as a friend, not as an enemy, not even as a memory in some splintered version of reality.

A gasp flew from Catra’s lips as she was thrust backwards. It wasn’t a physical force, necessarily, that sent her flying from her own body. But still she found herself somewhere else, somewhere beyond Adora’s arms. Back behind that mirror, same as before, with the din of a thousand whispers deafening her ears.

Horde Prime was determined to have control of her. To use Catra as the instrument of Adora’s destruction. But she wouldn’t do it, not this time—

Catra threw her whole body against the glass. Shards cut into her shoulders, her sides, but she refused to care. There was a way out, Catra knew that now. She only had to fight hard enough, send herself tumbling from beyond the barrier—

“I am _not_ giving up on you, Catra!” came Adora’s yell, louder than the voices could ever hope to be.

And Catra wasn’t giving up either. She could do it, she knew that. She just had to break past—

But then the whole world exploded in light and heat and electricity. Catra’s neck was _on fire,_ crackling like an open flame, and yet so was everything else. A body plowed into hers—Adora’s—propelling Catra beyond what must have been a terrible, planet-shattering explosion. One that Catra couldn’t see, couldn’t explain—only hear and feel as debris and heat nipped at her skin.

What was happening? What had been destroyed?

For a moment, Catra simply laid there in the darkness, ignorant to the world around her—too frightened to discover if she was still trapped on the wrong side of that mirror. Soreness clung to her every cell, pressing down on her like a physical weight, and Catra thought that might have been an indicator, at least. An indicator that she was beyond the numb and empty place that the chip had created within her.

It was silent, too. Not like that other place. Not like that room of quiet mutterings that Catra couldn’t decipher.

Catra’s eyes slid open. The darkness faded from her vision slowly, gradually, and in time it disappeared entirely. She soon realized that someone was there, standing over her. Someone blurred by the lights—

No, not standing. Hunched. Someone was hunched over Catra, searching Catra’s features for any sign—any indication—that Catra was alright.

Adora. It was Adora, leaning over her.

Catra had never seen Adora so unkempt, so beaten and brutalized. Her cheeks were stained and streaked with tears. Her face, coated in dust and debris. Even her ponytail was gone. Broken apart, the strands singed and splayed like broken wires.

She looked so afraid, staring down at Catra like that. Though perhaps it was a different fear than the one she’d seen before. Not a fear born of dread or distress or hopelessness, but rather...a tender concern. A fear that demonstrated just how much Adora wanted Catra to be free, to be well—to make it out of this place alive.

And Catra couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand Adora looking at her like that. Couldn’t stand those warm hands encircling her arms.

“Adora,” Catra said, “you should have stayed _away.”_

It felt foreign—her own voice. The hoarseness in her own words, the elusiveness of steady breath. The dense, sticking thing in her throat that refused to be swallowed.

“Why did you come back?” Catra demanded, near-frantic her in her own confusion. “We both know I don’t matter—”

Her breath gave out on the last word, but it didn’t matter. Adora had heard enough. Enough to understand, and enough to answer the question.

And there it was. The answer. Though not one in words, not yet. It was nothing but a gentle touch, the sprawl of Adora’s fingers across Catra’s cheeks. The pressure of Adora’s warmth against Catra’s space-chilled skin.

“You matter to _me,”_ Adora said simply. As if it were obvious. As if Catra should have known that from the start.

And then tears were springing to Catra’s eyes. The hand on her cheek was so warm, warmer than she’d even remembered, and this is where she wanted to stay. In this moment that was equal parts painful and comforting, a nightmare and a dream all at once—

But Horde Prime wouldn’t let her. Even now, she could feel him yanking her back. Throwing up another wall of glass, trapping her behind another twisted reflection.

Catra’s arm jerked without her permission, swiping clear across Adora’s face. And Catra could see it. She could see just how much she was hurting her, hurting Adora. She needed to get away, out of her reach—someplace where the monster possessing Catra’s body couldn’t inflict further damage.

She stumbled to her feet, to the edge. Seeking distance—any distance at all—while the chip continued to spark and sizzle at the base of her neck. Her vision kept flickering, changing between this—the real world, Adora’s world—and the empty dimension filled with unbreakable glass.

Her fingernails scraped against the chip, but she couldn’t quite grab hold of it. It was affixed to her skin, fastened there forever, possibly—

“Come on, Catra!” urged Adora from somewhere behind. “You’ve never listened to anyone in your life! Are you really going to start now?”

And it was funny, almost. That Adora had so much faith in her. Faith even in her worst traits—in her refusal to listen or change. So many times, Catra’s stubbornness had caused Adora enormous pain. Had nearly caused the end of the world, even. But now Adora was relying on that stubbornness. Praying for it, even. Hoping desperately that it would save them both.

Catra turned back toward Adora with a laugh, and she didn’t even know where it came from—that laughter. Maybe it was Horde Prime, slipping back inside with that army of murmuring voices. Maybe it was her own uncontrollable delirium. She didn’t know anymore, couldn’t keep track. But Catra’s hands were shaking—her whole body, trembling—and all she could do was watch Adora from a few feet away, praying that it would all stop, that she could regain possession of this one thing that should’ve belonged her, even when she could claim nothing else—

“You’re such an idiot,” Catra muttered, and never had an insult been filled with such disbelieving gratitude. Because truly, only an idiot would do this for her. Only someone beyond logic, beyond right and wrong. Someone without the tiniest regard for their own well-being.

“Yeah,” Adora agreed, nodding. “I know—”

Adora must have been delirious too—nodding, laughing, crying all at once.

And that was all they were—Catra and Adora. A pair of hysterical, sobbing, laughing bodies, separated only by a few feet of a distance and a pile of insurmountable hurt.

But they weren’t alone. Not entirely. _He_ was still there, somewhere in the periphery. Horde Prime. Trying to yank Catra backward, frantically assembling new layers of glass. Catra did her best to shatter them as they were forming, before they grew too thick. But it was still too dangerous to approach Adora. If she did, Horde Prime would be certain to invade her again. And then she’d be forced to lash out, to hurt her—

Adora could see it, too. See how Catra struggled.

“I’m going to take you home,” Adora assured her, but it wasn’t quite a promise. A soothing thought, perhaps. But not that. Not a promise.

Catra couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop crying. She wanted Adora to be safe...but she wanted more than that too. To be home. To be healed. To be free from this, all of this. And it was easy to forget, right then—easy to forget that Catra didn’t even have a home anymore. And why would she remember? The way Adora said those words...it made it seem like home was _right there,_ only a couple steps away.

“Promise?” whispered Catra, shuddering all the while. And it was a stupid thing to ask, really. Catra knew how dangerous that word could be. How huge and how empty.

But Adora still outstretched a hand. And Catra knew that she was falling, falling, _falling_ for the same thing all over again. Lying to herself, letting Adora lie to her. But this time she didn’t care. She didn’t care whether it was truth or fantasy. Didn’t care whether this promise would break—and break Catra right along with it.

Because that wasn’t the point. That had been never the point, Catra realized.

It was the making of the promise that mattered—not its keeping. Their world—it was always changing, always breaking. But to have someone who cared enough to _want_ to stay forever, even when forever was an impossibility…

“I promise!”

Catra reached out, whispering Adora’s name. They were so close, nearly touching now, just a few more inches—

But then _he_ was there, throwing up a layer of glass. One that was too thick, thicker than Catra could even make a dent in. Not that he gave her much of an opportunity. Not before he’d seized her every muscle, puppeteering Catra with even more determination than before. He threw back her hand, straightened her back. She was upright and stiff in a posture that her weak body could hardly sustain.

Normally, Catra did not hear what Horde Prime said when he spoke through her lips. But this time she did. This time he wanted her to listen.

“Disappointing,” he said, in Catra’s voice. “Some creatures are destined only for destruction.”

And then everything, _everything_ was exploding, glass shattering everywhere, colors flashing like strobes. It was all gone, everything, all of it falling to pieces. The mirror, the world beyond it, the back of Catra’s neck. She was falling—

## dark  
  
---  
  
## heartbeat

Catra coughed.

Her lungs burned as though she’d inhaled fire. In fact, her whole body felt like that. Like it had been burned to ash—to nearly nothing— and then frantically reassembled from whatever remained.

She was so, so sore. Sore and exhausted beyond description. All Catra wanted was to sleep, to curl into this warm bed. This bed that pressed back, that radiated its own heat, its own breath—

No, not a bed, she realized suddenly. It was too warm, too bony, too soft all at once.

Catra opened her eyes.

Adora. Adora was perched over her, over Catra, tears dripping wet and cold from her cheeks. It was Adora’s hands that clutched at Catra’s shoulders; Adora’s legs that cradled Catra’s head.

Somehow, she’d managed to fix her hair again. It looked the same as it usually did now, styled in its usual poof. And suddenly, Catra began to wonder whether she’d imagined it all—the fight aboard Horde Prime’s ship, the room filled with unbreakable glass, the promise to bring Catra home—

But Catra could feel it in Adora’s trembling arms. Could hear it in Adora’s faltering sigh. Something had happened to Catra, something terrible. Something that Catra couldn’t even remember.

But whatever it was—whatever had happened—Adora had saved her. Miraculously, impossibly, _illogically..._ Adora had saved them both.

Catra couldn’t stop looking at her. At her stupid hair and her obnoxiously pretty eyes. Eyes that seemed to belong in a different world—an alternate reality where Catra hadn’t done so many terrible things.

“Hey, Adora,” she murmured, drooping her head against Adora’s chest—listening for confirmation that this was real, that she was here. That they both were.

And there it was. Adora’s heartbeat. Catra had wasted endless moments of her childhood listening to that heartbeat, listening until she knew its rhythm better than the one pulsing within her own chest. And it had always beat in a particular way—Adora’s heart. Too quickly. Too strongly. Like it was trying to beat for everyone, everywhere, all at once.

Adora smiled at her, speechless with relief. And then she was pulling Catra more deeply into her arms, arranging her in an embrace that pressed their cheeks—their bodies—tightly together, closer than Catra had ever imagined any two people could be.

For a moment, Catra only stared over Adora’s shoulder, stunned by the surreality of it all. How could she believe that this was real? That Adora had saved her, forgiven her, _cared_ about her?

But Adora wasn’t letting go. Not this time.

And so Catra closed her eyes and twisted her hands into Adora’s jacket. She wasn’t about to let go, either.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this a bit earlier than usual. again, we're diverging from 'Don't Go' because canon is a relative statement and ya girl is too tired to rewrite. This chapter is looooong. 
> 
> anyway, hope you've enjoyed this enormous nearly 70k chunk of catradora angst and fluff!

# v.

##  magic

Magic radiates from She-Ra like warmth radiates from the sun. 

And she’s something of a vision—She-Ra. The tallest woman alive. More of a goddess, really, than a woman. 

At least, that’s what the residents of this distant planet will think, when they see her. When they catch sight of those shimmering blue eyes, those brawny arms capable of hoisting the whole world high above her head. 

Even that hair, with its stupid poof. Hair that flows from its ponytail with remarkable grace, twisting and twirling like a ribbon in the wind. 

She really is too beautiful for most people to comprehend. And in a universe so utterly devoid of magic, she’s sure to spark some imaginative tales. 

Catra definitely likes this version of She-Ra better than the old one. The hair isn’t quite so golden or massive—arranged into the ponytail that Adora always prefers—and the outfit is much more practical and mature. Armor befitting of a warrior in battle. 

She looks like Adora now. Like she’s a part of Adora, rather than the thing that possesses her on occasion. 

It’s an awe-inspiring if not somewhat ridiculous sight: She-Ra, raising her sword and then—with a mighty yell—charging directly into the enemy’s crosshairs. The kind of sight that will surely spread across the galaxy through rumors and retellings. 

It’s the first time She-Ra has fought anyone in a long while, and Catra can tell that Adora is enjoying it. Swiping shockwaves with that sword, smashing boulders to pebbles beneath her fists. The group of interstellar pirates that hoped to terrorize this tiny colony—they never really stood a chance. 

Catra considers helping. Really, she does. But what’s the point? She-Ra seems to have the situation well in hand. 

So Catra returns to her previous distraction. Namely, examining the strange selection of alien fruits available at this little merchant’s stand. That was why they landed here, after all. To stock up on food. But of course Adora had to stick her nose—or rather, her sword—in the planet’s burgeoning criminal enterprise. 

“Who is _that_?” gasps the merchant, and Catra doesn’t even have to look to know who they’re gasping about. 

It’s her, of course. She-Ra. 

Catra glances briefly over her shoulder, acknowledging that Adora is, in fact, still alive and tearing the pirates to pieces, and then returns her attention back to the odd green-and-red melon she’d picked up for further inspection. 

“That,” Catra says, closely examining the melon for imperfections, “is my girlfriend.” 

* * *

##  hiding

“Stay away from me!”

Catra’s voice climbed in its shrillness—rasping like something scoured with shards of glass. 

The last time she saw Entrapta was within a nightmare. One of the worst of her life—one that recurred so frequently that Catra had stayed awake for weeks rather than surrender to it. 

But now Entrapta stood before Catra, real as stars and space and alien empires, clutching at wicked-looking instruments that could easily tear Catra from the life she’d barely managed to reclaim. 

Catra squeezed herself against the wall, seeking distance—any distance at all. Because here was yet another product of Catra’s worst mistakes. Another friend who she’d betrayed—who she’d hurt in the most unforgivable ways. 

Another friend who had every right to kill her. 

And no one would blame her for doing it, either. No one would blame Entrapta for “accidentally” killing Catra while carving the chip from her neck. _A necessary casualty in the pursuit of scientific exploration_ , she would say, and move on. 

Though truthfully, Catra wasn’t scared of dying. She’d received far worse punishments in recent days alone. 

But she _was_ afraid of submitting herself to Entrapta’s judgement. Because that was what it would be, if Entrapta operated on her. A medical procedure, yes—but also a clear-cut valuation of Catra’s life. Catra would have to sit there, helpless, as Entrapta decided whether or not she should tolerate Catra’s continued existence.

To fight an offensive or a defensive was one thing. War was war, fighting was fighting—a simple exchange of blows and a mutual desire to survive at the cost of another person.

But to place her life squarely between someone’s hands and hope to be saved? That was something else entirely—something sacrificial and vulnerable and altogether too trusting. 

Especially if Catra had once ordered those hands to be bound and dragged off to Beast Island. 

Desperately, she wished for another way. Wished that the chip simply came off when she scratched at it with her nails. But nothing Catra did—picking at it, clawing at it, beating her fists against it—shook it free from that spot at the base of her neck. 

The chip refused to leave, and so did Horde Prime’s presence in Catra’s mind. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That was why Adora and Entrapta had barged in so suddenly. To stop them—these whispers and visions that flashed constantly in Catra’s mind, bright and vicious as lightning lashing at the sky. 

The chip couldn’t control her anymore. But Horde Prime could still see her, could still _feel_ her, could still reach across lightyears of space and sink his nails into her—

“Catra!” Adora barked, striding purposefully toward Catra’s cowed position against the wall. “Horde Prime is tracking that chip! He’s coming for us right now.”

Adora radiated impatience as she bore down on Catra—a body of stiff, stilted motions and marching footfalls. Her expression was hard, the hardest Catra had seen it since arriving on the ship. Still simmering with leftover irritation from their last conversation. 

They’d been arguing—Catra and Adora. Or really, Catra had been arguing. Stoking Adora’s fury with blatant ungraciousness and refusals to help or be helped. 

But Catra couldn’t behave any other way, not after everything. The only Adora Catra understood these days was an angry one—not that gentle, endlessly concerned figure who perched on Catra’s bed as she feigned sleep, sometimes even brushing stray hairs out of Catra’s face as she tossed and turned. 

The truth was...Catra just couldn’t remember how to do it. She couldn’t remember how to care and be cared for in turn.

Catra scurried into the corner, hoping to circumvent the bed to achieve her escape, but Adora was too fast—a hand flying out to snag Catra’s wrist before she could bolt toward the door. 

“Grow up and let us remove it or we’re all dead!”

Catra gasped as Adora pinned her wrist to the wall. Not in pain, exactly, but in surprise. Adora’s face loomed over hers, enraged and unyielding—as immovable and unwavering as the metal pressing into Catra’s back. 

It was difficult to meet her eyes. Difficult, especially with the memories of their last conversation just as fresh in Catra’s mind. 

_“I never hated you!”_

It was strange—the way Adora had shrieked that one reckless sentence. Sometimes, it struck Catra as a reassurance. Other times, a confession to a terrible crime. 

Catra had only stared blankly at her, processing those words like they were something thick and viscous. Something that oozed like sap across the surface of Catra’s mind. 

It just didn’t make sense. Adora must have hated her. She _must have_. She’d seen that in Adora’s eyes, after Catra opened the portal. She’d seen it in the way they’d fought, claws and swordpoints thirsting for blood. 

Adora had every right to hate her, just like Entrapta did. It was only fair—only right. 

And Adora was supposed to be good at that. At doing the right thing. But Catra wasn’t right, she wasn’t good—she was the villain, the monster that plagued Adora’s heroics at every turn. She had no state but this, no state but  _run_ or _attack_ , and if Adora didn’t hate her for that, Catra was going to lose her goddamn mind— 

Because if Adora hadn’t hated her…

Then what, exactly, had she felt all that time?

Catra felt herself slide down the wall, her knees buckling beneath her. It was utterly exhausting to be so afraid—afraid of being weak, of relying too much on anything or anyone, but also afraid of having nothing, and no one. Forever. 

“We’re doing this,” Adora said. “And then if you think hiding from the people you hurt will make you feel better, we’ll drop you off—and you’ll never have to see us again.”

And then they began to falter—Adora’s knitted eyebrows, her determined eyes. Drooping until they became something else entirely, something dejected and disappointed. 

She inhaled deeply—eyes tightly shut—and sighed. 

“You’ll never have to see _me_ again.”

She turned from Catra, then. Turned, and then began to walk toward the door—seeking escape from this version of Catra who only screamed and resisted and refused to care. 

There was no more fight left in her. In Adora. Whatever energy Adora had once mustered to battle Catra—to stand across from Catra as her enemy—it was gone now. There was only one thing left in those tightly-coiled shoulders, in those hands that hung so limply at her sides. 

Hurt. Even now, Catra was still hurting her. Still hurting Adora. Just like before, when she’d attacked the rebellion. Just like on Horde Prime’s ship, when she’d sunk her claws so deeply into Adora’s skin. 

Catra had only been trying to protect herself by saying all those things before. By demanding to be let off the ship, by claiming that she didn’t want or need Adora’s help. By accusing Adora of acting selfishly when really, rescuing Catra was the most absurdly selfless thing she’d ever done.

Adora, who had almost died trying to save her. Who might still die now, trying to save her.

But Catra wanted Adora to feel small. Small, despite the fact that she was—and always would be—the most imposing thing in Catra’s entire life. 

_“You matter to me_ ,” Adora had said. Back on Horde Prime’s ship, when they were too desperate and exhausted for arguments. When they were beyond any hope of protecting themselves, beyond caring about the too-distant past or the wholly unattainable future. 

And wasn’t that what Catra had always wanted to know? That that no matter how the world grew or shook or crumbled, she mattered to this person who mattered most to her? 

A memory emerged, then. Bright and flashing as Horde Prime’s, though far more damaging and honest than his could ever hope to be.

_“It’s you, wildcat,”_ ” Double Trouble had said. _“You drive them away.”_

And she did. Catra _did_ drive them away. Every person who’d ever cared about her. Refusing to listen, refusing to care, refusing to meet them in the space between meaning everything and meaning enough. Always expecting the worst, always searching for that cloud of smog to blot out the sun. 

She should have known better, by now. Done better. Been better. 

Adora, of all the people in the universe, deserved _better_. 

“Adora, wait,” Catra called, reaching out to secure a hand around Adora’s wrist before it fully moved beyond her grasp. 

Catra had fallen to her knees. That was the only way she could reach Adora in time. By leaning forward, by dropping to the floor.

It was also the only way to show that she too was finished. Finished insulting, finished fighting. Finished trying to make enemies out of friends, and a monster out of herself. 

Catra slid her hand down Adora’s wrist until she found them—Adora’s fingers, dangling so loosely at her sides—and then enclosed them within her own. 

It was something of a struggle to look up at Adora, knowing what Adora would see when she looked down. This beaten, broken, desperate version of Catra, kneeling on the floor, tethered to Adora’s hand like an anchor suspended from a ship. 

“Stay,” Catra pleaded, and not for the last time. 

* * *

##  cue

“Hey Glimmer, is Catra in here?” comes Adora’s voice from around the corner. 

Catra covers her own mouth with a free hand. Laughter—loud, snorting, indiscreet laughter—already threatens to escape her lips. And she can’t reveal herself now. Not when she’s positioned herself so perfectly, hidden exactly where Adora is sure is to walk past. 

Of course, all depends on Glimmer’s willingness to play along. If she decides to betray Catra now, it’s all over. And it’s always a persistent question—where Glimmer’s loyalties truly lie in this particular battleground. She tends to swap sides depending on the day. 

“Nope!” Glimmer says, mouth clearly half-full with something. Though the chewing is hardly unexpected. They’re all standing in the kitchen right now—though only Catra has stationed herself behind a wall, out of sight. 

“Oh,” Adora says. And it’s a little too flattering, how disappointed she sounds to find Catra absent. “I could’ve sworn I heard her —”

Glimmer gives a little hum. “Nope, just me. Maybe Catra went to raid the closet for snacks?” 

Alright now Glimmer might be laying it on a bit thick by doing that—by actually sending Adora in Catra’s direction. Not that Catra can actively complain about her heavy-handedness. Knowing Adora, she’ll probably fall for it either way. 

And so she does, muttering, “Huh. Maybe,” as she walks directly into the hallway that Glimmer pointed out to her. A hallway that runs perpendicular to the wall that Catra has concealed herself behind. 

The footsteps grow closer—louder—a soft thudding against sleek marble flooring. Catra braces herself, watches for the tip of Adora’s nose at as it turns the corner—

And then, once it’s within her sights, Catra hurls out her arm and lobs an entire cake directly into Adora’s face. 

Adora skids to a breathless stop as it collides with her—that mass of pink frosting and yellow batter. For a few moments, she merely stands there, sputtering and scraping frosting from her eyes. The cake coats her fingers wherever she touches it, wherever she tries to scour it from her skin, her clothes, her nostrils—

“Catra!” Adora gasps, though it’s only a blind accusation. She still can’t actually see who threw the cake, not with her eyes so coated in frosting.

Catra finally releases it—the laughter that she’s swallowed this whole time, patiently awaiting the perfect opportunity to prank Adora back, just as she deserves—

Adora groans furiously, arms stretched wide—sightlessly pursuing the sound of Catra’s laughter. “Seriously, Catra? I have to be in a meeting in ten minutes! Now I’m gonna have to upstairs and change—”

 _“Boo hoo_ ,” Catra says mockingly, smoothly backing out of Adora’s reach all the while. “Though I do wonder—if you change into She-Ra, will you still be covered in frosting?”

Teasing Adora is always enjoyable, but it does have its drawbacks. Namely, that it allows Adora to triangulate her general position by sound alone. 

A small shriek escapes Catra’s lips as a clump of cake smacks into her jaw, and it’s enough to let Adora know that she’s met her mark. 

“Ha!” Adora says, laughing as she pumps a triumphant first in the air. 

Catra’s laughing too hard to be upset. In all fairness, it was a pretty good throw for someone whose eyes are filled with frosting. 

Catra is still swiping the cake from her own chin when Adora half-tackles her in a hug. A hug, yes, but hardly a tender one. It seems that Adora has one goal in mind, and one goal only—to spread as much cake as possible all over Catra’s clothes and face. 

Adora smears her cheek, her forehead, her jacket all over Catra—streaking pink across skin and fabric alike. “You have the _worst_ timing,” Adora complains, though there’s no real frustration in her voice. 

And Catra can’t really complain, either. It’s a nice feeling—having Adora pressed up so close to her, rubbing against her in all sorts of enjoyable places.

Adora’s voice is smug. “You’re purring.”

“Am not!” Catra protests, definitely lying. 

Adora’s smiles somewhat gruesomely beneath her pastry-face-mask, trailing a thumb along the spot she managed to hit with that clump of cake. “I definitely got you good here.”

Catra scoffs disbelievingly. “Not as good as I got you. I mean, just look at you—”

Adora presses a kiss into Catra’s jaw, right where the cake landed. “I’m totally gonna get you back for this,” she mumbles against Catra’s skin, and then, laughing, uses her proximity as an opportunity to rub even more batter into Catra’s hair and face. 

She leans forward and kisses Adora on the nose—her original target. The tip of it is bright pink with frosting, and Catra tastes the sugar as her lips brush over it. “Can’t we bury the hatchet? I was only getting revenge for that stupid mouse trick—”

Namely, the time that Adora left a stuffed mouse on the floor, right where she knew Catra would walk past and _freak_. 

Adora laughed for nearly twenty minutes at the way Catra had hissed and jumped in the air. This little cake stunt—it wasn’t nearly as humiliating. 

“Nope, no hatchet burying,” Adora says resolutely, flicking even more cake into Catra’s face. “This is a war I fully intend to win. You’d best prepare for devastation.”

Catra snorts. “I was the best prankster in the Horde, not you.”

“Then I’ve learned from the best.”

Catra rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you late for something?” 

“I’ve got ten minutes,” Adora says, then waggles her eyebrow. “Besides, I’d be a shame to let all this cake go to waste–”

“And that—” Glimmer grumbles from somewhere beyond the corner, chair scraping as she rises to her feet, “is my cue to exit the kitchen.”

* * *

##  familiar

It was something equal parts foreign and familiar—being around Adora again. 

Space was huge and empty, but the ship was small and cramped. Just four small compartments against an infinite backdrop of stars and silence. No exits, no distractions. Just the stars streaking across the windows in bright white lines. 

Given the limited space, there wasn’t much Catra could do without Adora being present in some capacity. And Adora made herself present, always. Not that she was ever aggressive or needy about it. Catra doubted she was even aware of it. 

Adora just had a particular way of making herself known. Constantly broadcasting herself through looks and touches and shrunken gaps between bodies. 

There were so many little things that Catra had learned to forget. The way that Adora’s hip knocked into hers as a morning greeting. The smile she’d shoot Catra whenever either of them entered the same room. The hand she’d curl around Catra’s shoulder whenever the air around them grew tense or anxious. 

That was all familiar. Echoes of memories that she’d never quite managed to smother. 

But there were new things too. Things that Catra had never imagined, back when they were at war. 

The way she’d pull Catra into conversations with her friends. Tugging on the barest threads of connectivity so that Catra could feel included, even when she hadn’t earned right to be. 

The way that Adora would sit across the floor with her, talking away the hours. There wasn’t much else to do aboard the ship besides that—besides talking—and she loved telling Catra about all the strange things she’d learned since leaving the Horde. Loved describing, in detail, the intricacies of birthdays and floral arrangements and cookies with bright blue frosting. 

“There are also these things called board games—” she’d explain, “and they don’t have any stakes, not really, but people get really competitive over them anyway…”

Catra would listen quietly, asking questions only when Adora would mention something that sounded particularly absurd. “And people go to beaches and just...sit? For hours? And do nothing?”

Adora nodded with a disbelief that mirrored Catra’s. “I know, I didn’t understand it either, but apparently it’s a whole thing—”

There was a time not too long ago. A time when any mention of Adora’s life outside of the Horde would outrage Catra beyond expression. But it was hard to be outraged now. Impossible even, when neither the Horde nor Bright Moon still existed. Not as they once had, anyway. 

It was just something to talk about. Something strange and interesting and too harmless to be painful. And again Catra was battered with a rush of shame because, really, was _this_ what she’d been waging war against all that time? A kingdom of people who played games and lounged on beaches and ate cookies covered in frosting?

“People were happy there,” Adora told her. “In Bright Moon. And I don’t think...well, I never met anyone who was happy in the Horde.”

They were both sprawled out on the metal floor, staring at the ceiling. Catra had been imagining herself on a beach. A beach like the one Adora had described: a stretch of calm waves and warm sands and blissful thoughtlessness. 

Adora, meanwhile, was still far too fidgety to sit still. She occupied herself by playing idly with Catra’s fingers. And Catra could feel her every touch—the way she lifted Catra’s fingers and then released them one-by-one, listening for the soft clatter of the nail as it dropped onto the metal beneath them. 

“I think we were,” Catra said, after a moment. And it was a quiet, unthinking statement. One that surprised even herself. “Not always,” Catra continued quickly, as if already doubting her own words. “But sometimes, despite everything…I think we were happy.”

Yet another moment passed over them, and Catra worried that she’d said something stupid. Something that Adora didn’t feel the same about. And now Adora was pulling away, releasing her hold on Catra’s fingers and—

But Adora didn’t actually let go. She merely shifted her grip, slipping her palm around Catra’s fingers until they were fully enfolded within her grasp. 

“Yeah,” Adora agreed—squeezing Catra’s hand in hers. “I think we were too.”

Though they didn’t speak only of Adora’s discoveries in Bright Moon. Sometimes, their conversations stretched way back, long before beaches and cookies and princesses who _maybe_ weren’t so bad. 

“Remember when you climbed into that old bot and convinced Kyle you were a robot that gained self-awareness?” Adora asked, voice already tipping over the edge of laughter. 

Catra snorted, near-hysterical at the mere reminder. “Uh-huh. He spent weeks warning everyone about an ‘imminent robot uprising.’”

Nostalgia used to be one of Catra’s worst enemies. Sweet memories like those…she always did her best to bury them beneath thick layers of concrete. Always tried to suck the color from those kinder, sweeter moments, replacing them with memories that flashed red in their ugliness—Shadow Weaver’s ceaseless favoritism and abuses; the glow of that hideous sword in Adora’s hand. If Catra replayed her worst memories enough, all other things faded to dull static.

But now Shadow Weaver was far away—maybe even dead if they were lucky. And the sword had been destroyed, replaced by a better version that Adora could conjure all by herself. 

So it seemed that even concrete did not last. Not in a world like theirs, anyway.

Though at the end of the night (or whatever they decided night meant, since there was no sunset to judge the days by), Adora always retreated from Catra’s quarters, slipping out the door with a subdued sort of goodbye. 

Catra would lay in bed after that, fending off nightmares. They were lesser here, somehow, but not completely gone. Horde Prime’s tortures still recurred frequently enough, yanking Catra from sleep like the tug of some great garrote. 

One night, she awoke with a jolt from a particularly awful dream involving half-shattered mirrors and glowing green water. The kind of dream that lingered in Catra’s thoughts long after it had stopped projecting itself onto her eyelids. 

She grew too restless to remain in bed. It would be more peaceful, she thought, to emerge onto the main deck and allow the procession of stars numb her mind into blankness. 

And so she threw away the covers and left her quarters, stumbling wearily toward the central compartment of the ship. 

It was the first time Catra had decided to do this—to leave her room while everyone else was asleep. She was afraid that if she lingered too much, or did anything that seemed suspicious, they would once again decide Catra was an enemy. An enemy who only sought to sabotage or spy on them. 

It was a stupid fear, of course. But one she had all the same. 

She stepped quietly. Quietly enough that she didn’t wake Adora upon entering the room. 

Because Adora was there, for some reason, when Catra entered. Slumped in the uncomfortable-looking metal chair at the center of the floor, her head flopping onto her own shoulder. 

She had a blanket at least—one that had been thrown somewhat messily across her torso. Messily enough that Catra suspected that someone else had placed it there, upon seeing Adora look so uncomfortable. 

Adora moaned softly in her sleep, unconsciously shifting to find a more comfortable position, but there simply wasn’t one to be found. The chair was too cold. Too rigid to painlessly support a sleeping body. 

Catra couldn’t fathom why she was out here, sleeping like this. Maybe Bow or Glimmer snored, and she’d sought some silence on the main deck? But then again, Rogelio used to snore, and that never sent Adora searching for a new place to sleep. 

Catra kneeled in front of Adora and then, with both hands set lightly upon Adora’s shoulders, shook her awake. 

“Hey, Adora—” she whispered.

Adora jumped a foot in the air, flinging out both arms in a defensive sort of gesture, and Catra had no choice but to hurl herself out of Adora’s reach. 

“Watch it!” Catra snapped as she dodged Adora’s fist. 

Adora was panting and wide-eyed for several moments, disoriented from being agitated from sleep so suddenly. But then she seemed to recall where she was, and her panic subsided in favor of a more pressing concern—the soreness in her joints and muscles. Catra watched as Adora scrunched up her eyes and rubbed remorsefully at her own tailbone.

“Catra…?” Adora’s voice was still half-blurred by sleep. “What are you doing out here?”

Catra rolled her eyes. “I could ask you the same thing. Why aren’t you in bed?” 

Adora merely shrugged. 

“Did you hear what I said?” Catra said. 

“Why aren’t _you_ in bed?” Adora countered somewhat childishly. 

Catra raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “I’m just taking a walk to clear my head. But if you stay here all night, your neck’s gonna hurt like hell in the morning.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Adora muttered. 

“Seriously, Adora. Just—”

“This is my bed, okay?” Adora interrupted her. “It’s either this or the floor, and the floor’s even colder.”

“What?” Catra blinked. “Why don’t you have a bed?”

Adora shrugged wordlessly yet again. And this time, Catra knew that there was more to this silence than a half-asleep unwillingness to explain. There was something else here, beneath the surface. Something that Adora didn’t want Catra to know. 

“Adora,” Catra said, more firmly now. “Why don’t you have a bed?”

Adora sighed and dropped her elbows onto her knees. “We only brought four, okay? Four cots.”

At first, Catra didn’t understand. Four cots should’ve been exactly enough. One for Glimmer, one for Bow, one for Entrapta and one for Adora. There was no reason why Adora had to sleep in this stupid chair—

But then Catra remembered the abandoned cot in her own quarters. 

Four cots. Because Adora had only expected to rescue Glimmer on this trip. One person plus the three already embarking on the mission. But instead she’d collected another passenger, another body in need of a place to sleep: Catra. 

“You gave me your bed,” Catra realized, barely murmuring the words. Because _of course_ Adora had. Adora had given Catra her own bed, her own room. She had probably refused Glimmer and Bow’s offers to switch off sleeping in the chair, too. 

She felt dazed with guilt. They’d been on this ship for days, and Catra hadn’t even noticed. Everyone else was sharing a room but Catra had been given a full section of the ship to herself—

“It’s fine,” Adora assured her all-too-quickly. “The chair’s really not that bad, and I’m always the first one out here for breakfast—”

“Do you know how dumb you sound right now?” Catra hissed. “First you save my life, and then you give me your bed? You should’ve made me sleep on the floor–”

“You were recovering,” Adora said, voice devoid of regret or doubt. “Besides, it’s no big deal. I told you—I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re sore. You’re sleeping like shit. You should’ve told me earlier—”

“I’m fine, Catra. Really.”

“No, you’re really not,” Catra said, then clasped a hand around Adora’s wrist. Adora didn’t have time to react before she was yanked to her feet, stumbling off-balance as Catra pulled them both back to what should’ve been Adora’s room. 

“What are you doing?” Adora whispered, too quiet to sound properly angry or surprised. 

Catra hauled open the door and tugged them both inside. “I’m giving you back your stupid bed,” she told Adora, flinging a hand in the direction of the empty cot, the blanket still hanging loosely from the mattress. “So lay down and get some sleep.”

She shoved Adora even deeper into the room. Shoved and shoved until they were both standing at the foot of the bed. 

“No way,” Adora protested, attempting to scramble backward, “ _You_ lay down and get some sleep. I’m fine, I promise—”

“Don’t be an idiot—”

“You’re the one acting like a idiot—”

“Fine!” Catra whisper-shrieked. “We’ll both lay down and get some sleep, if that’s what you want.”

“What are you—?”

The question transformed into a small _oof_ as Catra gave Adora another shove, one that finally pushed Adora onto the mattress, flat-backed and breathless. 

And then, before Adora could clamber to her feet, Catra dropped herself onto Adora’s legs, curling herself at the foot of the bed in the same way she used to, when they were kids. 

“Catra,” she heard Adora whisper exasperatedly, somewhere up the length of the cot. Her legs wriggled beneath Catra’s body. “This isn’t necessary.”

“Would you just relax for once?” Catra said, hissing yet again. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, anyway. We’ll both get a good night’s sleep this way.” 

Adora made a small noise of protest. “But you shouldn’t have to sleep like that, on top of my feet—”

“Yeah, well,” Catra shrugged, “I _like_ sleeping like this. I always have.”

Adora fell into stunned silence for several moments after that. And Catra could admit that it felt strange to do this, after everything. After exchanging so many blows and sharing so many terrible, world-shattering moments. 

“Unless _you_ don’t like it,” Catra added as a self-conscious afterthought. “I’ll get up, if you really want me to—”

“No,” Adora said quickly. “I liked it too, back in the Horde.” 

“Good,” Catra said, trying not to sound too relieved. “Now be quiet, and get some sleep.” 

She felt Adora turn onto her side and chuckle softly as she settled onto the pillow. 

“Goodnight, Catra,” Adora whispered.

Catra sighed and pressed her side more tightly into Adora’s legs. And somehow, it was warmer than the blanket, having her here. 

“Goodnight, Adora.” 

* * *

##  team

It was definitely weird. Being part of a team. The rebels’ team—Adora’s team. 

She didn’t really know what she expected. A part of her never really believed that they’d make it back to Etheria. Less believable, even, was the idea that the rebels would let Catra hang around once they got there. 

Though Catra had tried to earn some semblance of a place among them. She’d apologized to Entrapta—and apologized a couple more times after that—and overall just did her best to be helpful wherever help was needed. 

Bow and Glimmer seemed to have acclimated to Catra’s presence rather quickly. They had been quick to pull her into their conversations, their plans, their taunts and teases. Part of that, she assumed, was because Catra had nearly died to rescue Glimmer. It was difficult to hate someone who’d once saved your life. 

And no one knew that better than Catra, in Adora’s case. 

Not that Catra was too concerned with hating Adora anymore. More concerning was that opposite feeling. The prickling of Catra’s skin wherever Adora’s hands brushed against it. The straining of Catra’s ears to measure and memorize the laughter in Adora’s voice. 

There was something else, too. An unidentifiable furnace of an organ, somewhere inside of her. Lodged between her chest and the base of her spine. It burned bright as distant stars whenever Adora’s eyes met hers, or whenever Adora’s smile quirked upwards.

It used to scare her. That feeling. But now Catra only wanted to wrap herself inside of it. To lay in bed aboard that ship forever, surrounded by stars and silence and the warmth of Adora’s legs. Close within Adora’s reach, but far outside of Horde Prime’s. 

Something was still missing, though. Even now, with Catra happier than she had been in years, she felt its absence. That aching gap in the universe. A phantom limb, of sorts—something that had never once existed, but demanded to.

Thoughts crawled from the depths of Catra’s brain. Thoughts that she had never once allowed to evolve beyond formless, nameless wants. But now she knew. Now she could name them. Picture them, even, in daydreams more vivid than her worst nightmares. 

She wanted to relinquish that space on the foot of the bed. She wanted to climb higher, go further. To match Adora’s body inch-to-inch, chest-to-chest, face-to-face. Legs slung around Adora’s waist and lips ghosting across her collarbone—

But their time aboard the ship soon came to an abrupt end. Adora fulfilled her promise. She brought Catra home, to Etheria. She folded Catra into her rebellion, her team, her hopes to liberate Etheria. And of course Catra would help her free the planet from Horde Prime’s control. Horde Prime had done more than enough to earn Catra’s vengeance. 

But the princesses on Etheria took one look at Catra and poised themselves for attack. Netossa tossed her nets. Frosta swung her ice-coated fists. And of course, Catra couldn’t blame them for that. Catra more than deserved it, after everything. 

But Adora always soothed them, assuring them that Catra was with them, now. That Catra was part of the team. 

And who could ever argue with her? Adora was always so self-assured, so confident. So put-together and determined and committed to the broader strategy. If she trusted Catra, the rest of them certainly could—

And if she was transformed into She-Ra? This new version of She-Ra, who really just looked like a taller, buffer, glowing version of Adora? The whole world would happily do anything Adora said, when she looked like that. 

Admittedly, the old She-Ra used to disgust Catra. She’d only considered her a false skin around Adora’s body—an illicit possessor of Adora’s mind and soul. But this She-Ra...Catra didn’t want to talk about how she felt about the new and improved version. If there was anything for her to say except a single word (hint: an antonym of “cold” that happened rhymed with “dot”) that Catra refused to say aloud. 

Of course, joining the rebels meant sharing their camp. And Adora and Catra’s old-but-new sleeping arrangement came to a rapid halt. Adora was the rebel leader here. Catra was the Horde’s former second-in-command. Neither of them were prepared to reveal their rather embarrassing sleeping habit to the eyes of the entire rebellion. 

Besides, there was always something to do, someone to save. And Catra knew she owed it to these people—to all of Etheria, really—to help. 

And she did want to make things right. Really, she did. 

But she wasn’t always thinking about Etheria’s future. 

It was a more than common occurrence—for Catra to stare across the room at Adora, wishing that the room was empty, save the two of them. Wishing that the war was over. 

It was difficult to imagine what life might be like, after this. If they won the war. The world had already been changed beyond recognition, and Catra could only guess at the transformations yet to come. 

Catra didn’t know what she would be, either, when it was all over. Didn’t even know what she was now. Was she a Horde soldier? A war criminal? An exile? A rebel? 

Everything kept changing. Everything, except for one thing. One person. Someone who smiled whenever Catra met her eyes, just like she used to. Someone who reached for Catra’s hand as they slept on adjacent cots—even if it was just a little bit embarrassing. 

Catra didn’t know who she wanted to be, when this was all over. But she knew who she wanted to be with. 

* * *

##  control

The Fright Zone looks nothing like it once did. 

This place destroyed Catra, once. This place of smog and clanking machinery and marching feet. It spent a lifetime poisoning her mind in the same way it poisoned the skies and the soil. 

It killed so many people: the children too small to fend off bullies, the cadets too unhealthy to survive sickness, the soldiers too slow to escape the battlefields unscathed. All of them, dead and gone in unmarked graves, cremated and disposed of amidst piles of scrap and trash. 

The ones who survived were destroyed too, though in a different way. That kind of survival—it only makes people cruel. Only makes them selfish and mistrusting and incapable of properly discerning between right and wrong. 

There sometimes were exceptions to the rule. Catra can name two of them, in particular. But they were just that—exceptions. 

It doesn’t excuse anything, obviously. That the Horde made such monsters of its people. But it’s something that Catra needs to remember, if she’s to have any hope of understanding herself. 

The Fright Zone is unrecognizable now. It has been for years, since Adora freed Etheria’s magic. Flowers spring from its every stony crevice. Grass bursts from rusted tin sheets as though metal has always been a viable substitute for fertile soil. But that's the nature of magic, Catra supposes. It creates beautiful things in the most inhospitable places. 

This is Scorpia’s kingdom now, but there wasn’t much to be salvaged from these old Horde buildings. She’s abandoned them here, letting nature take their toll and reclaim the structures for flower beds. 

Catra pulls at one of the old doors. Pulls and pulls, but it doesn’t budge in the least. She tries her claws next, slashing lines across the surface, but she doesn’t manage to sink them deep enough. 

“Here,” Adora says, outstretching a hand. “Let me.”

A glowing sword flickers into existence between Adora’s fingers. Her grip tightens around the handle and then, with a grunt of effort that echoes through the trees, Adora thrusts the blade deeply into the metal. 

When sparks stop flying and a suitable square is cut, Catra and Adora kick the door down together. It topples to the ground with an echoing, dissonant clang. 

The interior that lies beyond is dark as pitch, but Adora doesn't hesitate, surging blindly ahead. Catra smirks as she holds out an arm to stop her. “Let me,” she says, gesturing for Adora to back up so Catra can take the lead. 

Adora blinks at her in a funny sort of way—like she’s deciding whether or not to be offended. “Why?”

“You’re not so good at seeing in the dark, remember?”

Adora raises her sword, which glows bright as a lantern within her grasp. Her voice is half-mocking as she says: “I don’t need to see in the dark, remember?” 

Catra rolls her eyes, then lowers her arm. “Fine. But if you trip and twist your ankle, I am not carrying you home.”

Adora smiles like she simply doesn’t believe her. And she’s right not to—not to believe her—because Catra would absolutely carry her home. She’d complain about it the whole way, sure. But Catra would carry her, just as Adora would carry Catra. 

Hours pass as they walk the hallways in silence. There’s water dripping somewhere in the distance, and the old metal creaks as it expands and contracts in the heat. 

They don’t really have a good reason for being here. It’s been years, in fact, since they’ve set foot in this particular region of Scorpia’s vast kingdom. 

But Catra supposes that even the worst memories eventually become scars. And what are people supposed to do with scars, except try to remember how they got them?

“This was our bunk,” Adora says, raising her sword to reveal long-abandoned barracks. Though Catra could guess at their location by the scent of moldy blankets alone. 

Adora approaches their old cot. She leans over it, careful not to touch the rotting fabric with her hands as she illuminates the bunk with her sword. 

“Hey! My old flashlight!” Adora exclaims, finding the little metal device wedged in a crevice between the cot and the wall. Catra watches as she flips the switch on, then off, then on again—a beam of light sputtering between presses. Adora is absurdly excited when she declares: “It still works!” 

Adora throws around the flashlight beam until she catches an odd set of shadows on the metal frame of the bunk. She settles the light—focusing it on that particular spot until it becomes something they both recognize. 

“You crossed me out,” Adora observes, referring to the old drawing that Catra had once carved into the metal. The silly cartoon of Catra and Adora’s faces, side-by-side. They were twelve when they drew that, Catra thinks. But it’s difficult to remember. 

She remembers slashing across Adora’s drawing, though. The way she cried and clawed at the bed, devastated by the idea that Adora wasn’t coming back.

Wordlessly, Catra walks over and swipes her claws over what remains of the drawing—namely, the mischievous-looking drawing of herself, left so alone and abandoned on that heavily-scratched wall. 

And then Catra is walking onward, to the next hallway. Adora follows her, and Catra can feel her wanting to say something about it—about the drawing—but she doesn’t. Catra is grateful for her silence. 

They keep walking. Past the locker room, the bathrooms, the old training courses, even the mess hall. 

Catra thought they had no destination in mind—just a desire to wander aimlessly through this aging backdrop of their childhood. But as their feet bring them closer and closer to a particular location—a particular room—Catra knows that she’s only lying to herself. 

They’re standing outside the Black Garnet chamber now. Or what used to be the Black Garnet chamber. The runestone was moved elsewhere long ago, when Scorpia started rebuilding her family’s kingdom. But the room that once held it still remains. 

The room remains, even if its most infamous occupant no longer does. 

Catra still remembers Shadow Weaver’s sacrifice—the way she incinerated herself and that monster in a swell of fire and light. 

_“It’s too late for me,”_ Shadow Weaver told her. “ _But you….this is only the beginning for you_. _I am so proud of you, Catra._ ”

She always thought that watching Shadow Weaver die would be satisfying. Those words— _I’m so proud of you, Catra_ —they should have been satisfying to hear too. But there was no satisfaction to be found in that single, horrific moment. Just resentment. And sadness. And confusion, most of all. 

There’s a blaring in Catra’s mind at the sight of this one room, so empty and abandoned and decayed. A thousand syllables of tormented nonsense, an endless stream of questions and demands. 

Her legs begin to tremble, and then so does the rest of her. She’ll be crying soon—she can feel it. The tears are already welling in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. 

Catra and Adora wandered into this room once, when they were little. And Shadow threatened to kill Catra for it. For one small intrusion, one tiny infraction. 

She was only a child. They both were. 

“It’s been years,” Catra says, wiping an elbow across her eyes. “It’s been years, and I still don’t understand why she did any of those things to us. To me.” 

It’s first instinct for Adora—to surround Catra in her arms, to pull her close and hold her there. Catra allows herself to be guided there. Allows her head to fall onto that impossibly strong platform of Adora’s shoulders. 

“I know she wanted power,” Catra says. “But how did hurting me get her any closer to that? Why did she have to play favorites? Picking on me all the time, hurting me for the smallest, stupidest things, things that didn’t even make sense—”

But then there are too many tears spilling into Catra’s mouth, and the words come out jumbled and drowned. 

They stand there for some indeterminable amount of time. Stand until they can’t stand anymore—until they’re both kneeling on the rusted ground, still clutching tightly to one another.

“She never hurt you the way she hurt me,” Catra manages between sobs, and it’s not an accusation, or even a complaint. Just a statement. A statement of an injustice that once was, one that can’t be forgotten or changed. 

“You’re right,” Adora whispers. And her voice is thick, too. Like she’s also been crying. Though Catra can’t see that beyond the blurry film of her own tears. 

“I just don’t know why,” Catra says. “Why did she hate me so much—”

“She didn’t hate you, Catra,” Adora tells her, and begins stroking Catra’s hair. “She was cruel. And unforgivable. But I don’t think she ever hated you.”

“Then why—”

“Why do you think?” Adora says. “You said it yourself. She liked power. She liked control. And by hurting you, she could control the both of us.”

“Both of us?” Catra echoes, leaning back and blinking tears out of her eyes. 

“You had it worse,” Adora says solemnly. “You always did. I will never deny that. She controlled you through threats, through pain. But there were times that I…” She inhales sharply. “There were times when I talked back to her, or didn’t perform well, and it wouldn’t make sense—the way she’d just let those things slide. But then I’d come back to the barracks and see what she did to you—”

A large, trembling sigh escapes Adora’s lips. 

“She knew I’d do anything to protect you—anything at all. And that was how she kept me from disobeying her. By threatening you—by attacking you whenever I did something wrong. And I think it drove her especially crazy, when you and me fell apart. She’d suddenly lost her most effective method of controlling me.”

“She made me hate you, sometimes,” Catra murmurs. “Hate you, because I knew that if you stopped caring about me, or if I did anything that put you in danger, she’d just get rid of me—”

Adora’s grip on Catra tightens. “It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair—what she did to us. It never will be. She pitted us against each other, used our feelings to her advantage.”

“And yet she sacrificed herself for us,” Catra says quietly. “How are we supposed to feel about that, then? She hurt us our whole lives, but then she goes and does this one thing–”

“We let her go,” Adora says. “We acknowledge that she did one semi-decent thing out of a million terrible ones, and move on.” 

Catra shakes her head. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” Adora agrees. “It’s not. But we need to stop asking ourselves these things about her. She wasn’t complex. She wasn’t heroic. She was cruel, and we were her victims. You and me—” Adora presses her lips into Catra’s cheek. “We were lucky to survive her. And that’s all we need to remember.” 

* * *

##  watch

Catra found fearlessness as she stared into the eyes of Shadow Weaver’s mask. Expressionless, inscrutable eyes. Eyes that all too happily hid the truth. 

“I’ve been watching you,” Catra said, “the whole way in.”

She tugged Adora by the wrist down from the dais, away from the electrically charged crystal that hovered overhead. It crackled dangerously above them, snapping and lashing at everything within vicinity, and Catra was certain that it would do the same to Adora if she approached it any further. 

Catra clutched at Adora’s hand like it might be snatched away at any moment. Her instincts howled at the sight of this place—at the sight of that crystal—and Adora walking blindly toward it, under Shadow Weaver’s orders. 

But Catra had more than instinct in this particular case. Because finally, _finally_ Catra had learned to know better. To listen beyond Shadow Weaver’s silk-smooth words and convenient assurances. It was almost like Catra could hear them, now—the lies squirming like maggots beneath that gauzy veneer of care, of sympathy, of wanting what’s best. 

She’d been studying Shadow Weaver since her all-too-opportune arrival in Bright Moon. A visit in which she claimed to have miraculous knowledge of a Failsafe. One that would disable the Heart of Etheria before Prime could seize control of it. 

That never made sense to Catra. It never made sense that Shadow Weaver knew not only the exact purpose of this Failsafe, but also how to find and use it in exact detail. Never made sense that instead of acting on this intimate knowledge during her excursion with Castaspella, Shadow Weaver had decided to push that responsibility off on Adora and her friends. 

Shadow Weaver loved manipulation, sure. But she wasn’t one to waste time if she could achieve her goals all by herself. 

Their arrival in Mystacor had only heightened Catra’s suspicions. It seemed like Shadow Weaver knew every inch of the corridors that led to this chamber: the correct paths to take, the location and nature of the traps along the way. 

And now Shadow Weaver was practically shoving Adora beneath those crystals. Refusing to explain, refusing to waste another moment, insisting that this was the only way, that Adora didn’t have a choice—

“You’ve been in here before, haven’t you?” Catra accused. “You could’ve taken the Failsafe yourself and gotten all the power you’ve ever wanted. But you didn’t. Why?”

“You’re being paranoid,” said Shadow Weaver. But still Catra could hear it. The lies, the false denial embedded deeply in those words. “This is the only way to stop Prime. Adora understands that well enough—”

Shadow Weaver stepped forward, hand outstretched to Adora, but Catra wouldn’t let her come any closer. Wouldn’t let her poison Adora with a touch that hoped only to coax, to trick. 

Because nothing, nothing, _nothing_ about this made sense. If this Failsafe was so critical, why didn’t Shadow Weaver take it? Or even if Shadow Weaver couldn’t be trusted to take it, why not someone else? Anyone in the rebellion or on this mission, Glimmer or Bow or Castaspella or even Catra herself—

But no. Shadow Weaver was certain that it had to be Adora. And of course Shadow Weaver knew that Adora would do it, too. Adora would walk into any danger, any trap in the desperate hope that it would protect Etheria. 

All that talk in the hallway that Catra had overheard—talk about distractions and saving the world and Etheria needing She-Ra and not Adora. All of it, perfectly crafted to create an illusion of urgency around this task. An urgency so profound that there couldn’t possibly be time to think things through, to consider the consequences, to remember that there was and always would be _more_ to Adora than just She-Ra—

But Shadow Weaver was fixated on Adora’s ability to turn into She-Ra. Fixated on it in the same way she was fixated on the Failsafe, like the two things were interconnected, somehow—even though, as far as they’d been told, the two things were supposed to be entirely independent of one another. 

“Why does it have to be Adora? What is going to happen to her? What aren’t you telling us?”

The room descended into silence as Shadow Weaver said nothing—revealed nothing. Only lowered her hand and backed away a few paces, out of the immediate range of either Catra or Melog’s claws. 

Catra knew, then. Knew that there could be only one fate for Adora, if Shadow Weaver expected such terrible reprisal at the slightest mention of the truth.

The Failsafe was going to kill her. Somehow, some way, the Failsafe would end Adora’s life. 

“Answer the question!” Spinerella demanded. But Catra didn’t care. Catra had heard enough. Shadow Weaver’s silence spoke more truth than her words ever would. 

“Whoever uses the Failsafe must absorb the full magic of the Heart when it is destroyed. That much raw magical power would burn any mere mortal apart," Shadow Weaver said, and pointed her mask toward the floor. "None of us are strong enough.”

And then Adora echoed the words already ricocheting through Catra’s brain. 

“But She-Ra is.”

Catra looked back and saw Adora staring at the crystal, her eyes fixated as if hypnotized. She was still considering it—still considering accepting the Failsafe. She’d been too seduced by this lie of an idea, this vain hope of defeating Prime in one fell swoop. 

Shadow Weaver nodded. “Only She-Ra can hope to survive the process. No one else can do it.”

And this time, Catra was too stunned to stop Shadow Weaver from stepping forward—from separating Catra and Adora with her towering figure. 

“And if I don’t survive it?” Adora asked Shadow Weaver.

Because only Shadow Weaver would answer that question. Only Shadow Weaver would even consider taking this path, this risk—

Catra could only watch as Shadow Weaver reached for Adora’s cheek, cradling it gently—comfortingly—as she spoke revolting words of how worthy the sacrifice would be, if Adora was burned to ash by the Heart’s magic. 

Catra felt sick, looking at them like that. Wholly and horrifically sick.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

Catra had spent her whole life preparing to be murdered by Shadow Weaver. That was simply an affordance of Catra’s whole existence: the expectation of Shadow Weaver’s violence and its deadly, inevitable result. 

But Adora was Shadow Weaver’s favorite. Her golden child. The one she’d groomed since childhood to be the model of success, the vessel through which Shadow Weaver could gain power. 

Killing Catra—that made sense, at least. Catra had never been anything but a nuisance to Shadow Weaver. But would Shadow Weaver really work so tirelessly to kill Adora too? The girl she had always showered in pride and tenderness? 

But then Catra realized what it all meant. That all of it—every kindness Shadow Weaver had ever bestowed on Adora—was just as manipulative, just as murderous. A stack of cards built high as can be, only to be toppled at the perfect moment. 

She’d trained Adora to be selfless. To care about the mission above all things. Above herself, most of all. And this was the noblest mission Adora could hope to receive. The chance to be the planet-saving hero that everyone had always wanted her to be. The chance to sacrifice herself for the whole world. 

And of course Adora would accept it happily. Adora had been taught to take any risk, so long as it would take the risk from someone else. 

Questions swarmed Catra from all sides. How long had Shadow Weaver sought this Failsafe? How long had Shadow Weaver known that Adora would someday turn into She-Ra? 

Catra remembered when the first footage of She-Ra had been brought to the Horde. Everyone else had been stunned. Frightened, even, by the arrival of such a new and powerful princess. But not Shadow Weaver. Shadow Weaver hadn’t even seemed surprised. No, she was only desperate to find Adora. To bring Adora back to the Horde, back to Shadow Weaver’s control. 

What if Shadow Weaver had spent a lifetime grooming Adora for this moment? Not for conquering Etheria or laying waste to the rebellion, but for this—a heroic death at the center of the planet, one that would release all the magic that Shadow Weaver had ever wanted. 

And it was such a good ploy. This idea that She-Ra had the best hope of surviving. She-Ra seemed so strong, so indestructible. No one could take her place. No one could be better suited for the job. 

And if Shadow Weaver proved to be wrong—if Adora perished after all—it was simply a misfortune. A miscalculation. A well-considered risk that hadn’t fallen in their favor. 

Adora was still the vessel through which Shadow Weaver could gain power. Though not, as Catra had always assumed, by conquering territories or rebellions or even Etheria itself. 

No. Adora was to help Shadow Weaver through self-destruction. Her designated purpose since her adoption. Her fatal flaw, placed there by none other than Shadow Weaver herself. 

And it took only three words to bring Shadow Weaver’s plan to its terrible, all-too-predictable conclusion: 

“I’ll do it.”

The floor seemed to stretch a mile long as Adora began ascending the stairs to the dais. Catra sprung forward—sprinting, stumbling toward Adora. Trying to stop her, trying to make her see sense. 

“No!” Catra cried. “What—What’s wrong with you?”

Catra’s hands found Adora’s jacket. Her grip on the fabric was white-knuckled and trembling, but still she pulled. Pulled and pulled until Adora was turned around and facing her. 

She would hold Adora here. She would make her understand. Make her let go of this deadly fantasy—shake her until every lie planted by Shadow Weaver was dissolved at the root. 

Catra’s voice was a strangled, begging thing. Shrill as grinding metal, desperate as a drowning breath. 

“Shadow Weaver is _sacrificing_ you! Why can’t you see that?”

Catra could see it. She could see it too clearly in her mind’s eye. Adora, walking alone to the center of the Heart. Laying down her life for a future she would never see. Dying with a smile on her face as the magic returned to Etheria in a rush of shimmering, body-dissolving light. 

But this was nothing to smile about. Nothing to be proud of. Adora didn’t have to do this. She didn’t have to die just because Shadow Weaver said so. She deserved better than that. She deserved everything, anything she wanted—

Catra couldn’t do it. She couldn’t watch Adora disappear again. She didn’t want to face a world without Adora’s smile, Adora’s laughter. A world without Adora was—and always would be—the worst existence Catra could ever conceive of. One that she’d already lived and suffered and made a mess of. 

Adora was more than She-Ra, more than the rebel leader. She was a person, the person that Catra cared about more than any other. Why wasn’t that something to live for? Why couldn’t that be enough? Enough for her to live, to _stay_ — 

“Because even if she is—” Adora yelled, “it’s better than Prime getting the Heart and destroying the universe!” 

Adora was determined to do this. She was determined to die for Shadow Weaver. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her body rigid with resolve. Even now, she looked at Catra like an obstacle. The thing standing between Adora and ultimate victory. 

Ultimate, in the truest sense of the world. 

* * *

##  want

Catra couldn’t sleep. She’d stayed awake all night, staring at the Failsafe branded across Adora’s chest—at its soft blue glow, spilling between the threads of Adora’s blanket. It was a surprisingly beautiful way to mark someone for death, Catra thought bitterly. 

Adora slept restlessly, but that wasn’t anything new. Melog had perched themself at the foot of her bed, over her legs—the spot that Catra herself wanted to occupy, but refused to take. 

Catra wouldn’t even lower herself onto the cot adjacent to Adora’s. She knew what would happen, if she did. She knew that Adora would inevitably reach for Catra’s hand—her arm thrown out in a sleepy, grasping search. And Catra knew that she wouldn’t be able to take that hand without starting to cry. 

Adora was going to save the world by doing this. By sacrificing herself. Adora was going to give her life so that the whole world could survive. 

But there was still a world that wouldn’t survive, if Adora didn’t make it back. Their world. Catra and Adora’s. 

A damaged world, one that had never fully recovered from the war they’d waged across its surface. But it was still theirs—still warmer than any other. Still enough to fill Catra with blind, buoyant hopes for the future. 

But Catra had been foolish to hope for anything. Happy endings were—and always would be—an impossibility. Villains were too selfish to deserve them; heroes were too selfless to ever live to see them. 

And Catra couldn’t…she couldn’t even _breathe_ thinking about it. She just couldn’t believe how little Adora had considered this—that they were a world worth saving too, just like any other. 

But this was always the problem, wasn’t it? Adora’s heroism took up too much space. It left no room for Catra, no room for Adora, no room for anyone at all. It was a world of its own—a meteor the size of a planet, hurtling unstoppable at the speed of light.

And Catra? Catra was just another cosmic obstacle. A distraction. That was what Shadow Weaver had said, anyway—and Adora had believed it. That Catra was something that Adora would have to forget to complete the mission. 

That had always been the nature of this fissure between them. The one that wouldn’t stay mended, no matter how they stitched it back together. This splintering, jagged gap in the universe. This space, this distance, this chasm between hands and hearts and lips—

Adora had always wanted to save the world. 

But Catra had always just wanted Adora. 

There was no point in lying about it now. No point lying about this one tiny, insurmountable fact. The pupil at the middle of the iris, the star at the heart of the galaxy. The needlepoint at the center of every choice and mistake and good deed. 

Catra really, truly, _deeply_ wanted Adora—wanted her lips, her eyes, her body. Wanted her to be happy, to be healthy, to be safe. Wanted to hold Adora in her arms, wanted to grow old with her, wanted all those stupid, silly clichés that Catra should have been mocking rather than dreaming about. 

Even now, Catra wanted her. Wanted to curl beside her on the bed, wanted to wake Adora with the pressure of her lips and the weight of her arms, wanted to stifle the glow of that horrible Failsafe with her own body. 

She loved Adora. She’d loved Adora for so long, she couldn’t remember which came first—knowing her or loving her. Maybe there wasn’t even a difference in Adora’s case. 

Catra knew that this would destroy her, if she let it. This impossible, unmet want, this thing that pinned her somewhere between joy and devastation. She’d already walked this road. She’d already felt her heart collapse into dust, only to be pressed back into shape. Would she really let it happen again? 

No. Catra couldn’t stand waiting. She couldn’t stand around, waiting for the world to end. She always had to be the one to pull the switch—had to be the one to have the final say. Control was the one thing she clung to, in the absence of the thing that truly mattered. 

So what could Catra do with a broken heart, except break it some more?

Melog mewed mournfully as Catra gathered supplies in a pack. She could hear them questioning her, incapable of understanding why, exactly, she was choosing to leave someone she clearly cared about—

But what did magical monsters from other worlds understand about her, about this? Nothing. Nothing at all. 

And so Catra left. Left the rebels, left Adora. It was best. It had to be best, even if best was nothing at all. Catra didn’t need to be here to fight Horde Prime. She didn’t need to sit around, waiting for Adora to die. 

She’d be fine on her own. Catra was never meant to be anything else but this—alone. 

Catra marched adamantly into those woods, the pack weighing taut and heavy on her shoulders. Her steps were confident and unhesitant, but Melog’s weren’t. They kept looking back, despite how they trotted at her side. Still questioning her, doubting her, asking her why, as if it wasn’t obvious—

And then came the voice she hoped she wouldn’t hear. Not yet, anyway. Not until she was farther away. 

“Catra?”

Adora poured so much outrage and disbelief into her name, it stopped Catra in her tracks. 

Stopped her, at least, until she took off running. 

“Catra, stop!” Adora called, and Catra could hear the frantic footfalls scrambling to catch up with her. The heavy breaths panting somewhere behind her and growing louder, _closer_ —

Catra had always been faster but Adora had always been stronger. This sprint was the sort of distance Adora excelled at—a test of stamina rather than speed. It was inevitable, really. The way that Catra slowed while Adora only raced closer. 

Catra leapt up for a tree branch, knowing that her climbing skills were definitely superior to Adora’s. But she’d miscalculated. Adora was too close, close enough to leap with her, catching her by the backpack and towing them both down into the dirt.

And then they were wrestling—crawling, grappling, elbowing one another. Catra was determined to leave but Adora simply wouldn’t let her squirm away. She pulled Catra by the leg, by the backpack—curling hands around Catra’s wrists and pinning her beneath her weight. 

“You were just gonna leave?” Adora demanded, furious—eyes bright and burning as the stars overhead. 

“I’m doing you a favor,” Catra hissed, leveraging the weight of the backpack to shove Adora away. “I’m a distraction, right? Now you can go save the world without having to worry about me confusing you.”

“No, no that’s not true—” Adora protested, eyes wide with hurt and indignance. “Don’t listen to Shadow Weaver, this isn’t about her—”

No. At least that was something they could agree on, for once. That this wasn’t about Shadow Weaver. It was about Adora, just like everything else. It was about what Adora wanted. Or perhaps more accurately what she didn’t want, or didn’t want _enough_.

Frustration surged from a dark, twisted place inside Catra, and she found her palms thrusting outward. They collided hard with Adora’s shoulders and Adora fell several feet backwards, tumbling onto the grass. 

Catra stood. She knew she shouldn’t have done that. She shouldn’t have shoved Adora so hard. But she was smothered, so smothered, pinned beneath Adora like that. Bodies close but not close enough, immovable lips mere inches apart—

“Why are you like this?” Catra shrieked, unable to stop herself from asking, even when she knew. “Why do you always have to sacrifice everything for everyone else? When do you get to choose?”

Adora was sprawled on the ground several feet away, staring up at Catra as though she were speaking an alien language.

And still, it crumbled something within Catra. To watch Adora’s expression as she asked that question: _When do you get to choose?_ It was almost as if she’d never considered it. Never considered a fate other than this awful sacrifice, this noble calling. 

“What do _you_ want, Adora?” 

And of course Catra was crying. This moment couldn’t be truly mortifying without a proper river of tears from Catra’s eyes—without the tormented grate of her own voice, echoing sharp and desperate in the otherwise peaceful night. 

Adora only stared at her. 

“I…” she began, blinking—as though seeing Catra clearly for the first time. 

But whatever Adora saw, it clearly wasn’t enough. Wasn’t enough to change her mind, wasn’t enough to make her admit anything real. Wasn’t enough for Adora to utter the four words that Catra wanted to hear more than any others.

“ _I want you, Catra_.”

Instead, she received two excuses—the most predictable, tired excuses Catra had ever known. Twelve stupid words that said everything and nothing all at once. 

“I have to do this, Catra. I’m the only one who can.”

Catra couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t stay here, couldn’t keep on mending this fracture. How was she supposed to hold them together if Adora wanted so badly to dissolve into pieces?

Catra swiped an elbow across her eyes. 

“Then do it,” she said. “That’s what you want. That’s what you’ll always choose. I don’t have to stay and watch it happen.” 

It wasn’t easy, turning away from Adora. But it would be easier, Catra thought, than hoping for something that would never happen. 

“Catra, _please_ ,” Adora begged. And when Catra glanced back, Adora was on her knees—hunched over the grass, the pack clutched between her arms. “Stay.” 

And that wasn’t fair. Adora had no right to turn that word on Catra. What was she asking Catra to stay for, anyway? To stay and watch Adora die? To stay and watch Adora choose the world over everything, over everyone including herself, over and over again? 

Adora couldn’t ask Catra to stay. Not now, not ever. It was a word that Adora didn’t even understand. A promise that Adora had never once fulfilled.

“I need you.”

And that one…that was laughable. A contradiction, even. Why would she expect Catra to respect Adora’s needs when Adora refused to respect her own? Her own need to live, to survive, to make it past _twenty-one-fucking-years-old_ —

Besides, that wasn’t what Catra wanted. She didn’t want to be needed. She didn’t want to be a convenient comfort.

Need was not want. Adora had always conflated the two. She had never understood the difference, the value of one over the other. 

Adora would take this path whether Catra was here or not. This choice—it had never once taken Catra into account. So if Adora needed Catra so badly, why was she so determined to leave her behind?

“No, you don’t,” Catra whispered. “You never have.”

And then, beneath a shimmer of magic, Catra walked away. 

* * *

##  need

“Would you just kiss your girlfriend and get a move on?” Glimmer calls impatiently, waving for Adora to join her in the courtyard where Adora, Glimmer, and Bow would soon be teleporting out of Bright Moon.

Adora makes a vaguely placating gesture in Glimmer’s direction, then turns back to Catra. Her gaze is appealing. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Catra throws her arms around Adora’s neck, peppering kisses along her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids—and then, finally, the mouth. She leaves that for last, gliding her lips rhythmic and lingering against Adora’s. Biting just gently enough to drive Adora completely insane—and to remind her what would be waiting in Bright Moon, when she comes home. 

“Positive,” Catra whispers, letting the word float somewhere between their lips, vaporous and buoyant. 

Adora’s voice is nearly a whine when she says, “But I’ll need you there.”

Catra laughs at that. “No, you won’t.”

Because really, the last thing either of them needs is for Catra to go on this particular diplomatic mission. Catra doesn’t have a diplomatic bone in her body. Never has. Never will. 

Plus, there will be at least four members of Etherian royalty at this summit who Catra has no desire to see. Three royals—ones who rule strange and distant corners of Etheria—each with major, blatant, actively flirtatious crushes on She-Ra. And Catra really can’t be expected to behave civilly toward them for an entire weekend. It simply isn’t possible. 

Though Catra can’t really blame anyone else for feeling that way without turning herself into a total hypocrite.

She-Ra saved the planet—perhaps even the whole universe. It’s no wonder that people admire or love her. (Though Adora still pretends not to notice as they throw flowers at her feet and erect statues in her honor.)

Of course, that much adoration ( _ugh_ ) is not ideal for someone like Catra, who already exhausts hours each day thinking, wondering—tallying all the potential reasons why Adora might leave her, someday.

She’s sure that the rest of the world can’t even fathom it—why their savior wastes time on someone like Catra. Catra, the destroyer. Catra, the former leader of the Horde. Someone who seems, by all appearances, built for violence and not much else. Claws on each finger and toe, mangy and crude and crass to her very core. 

Catra entertains the notion that she’s better now. Kinder and quicker to use her words than her claws. But jealousy is certainly something she still struggles with. Something that sends her stumbling toward tears and accusations and fits of rage.

They do their best to talk about it, when it comes up—Catra and Adora. Do their best to talk about what—exactly—Catra is so afraid of when people show interest in Adora. 

It’s easy to identify. Easy to name. 

Adora deserves better. The best, even. The greatest person alive. Someone who Catra most definitely is not. 

And there’s probably a significant portion of the Etherian populace who would happily take Catra’s place. People who are far less tainted by the past than Catra is, and far more capable of making Adora happy. 

_“If Adora wanted someone else_ ,” Perfuma once told her sagely, “ _she would be with someone else. But every day—every morning and night—she chooses you. You need to trust her to keep making that choice. And you need to accept it, if she someday chooses differently. Holding on and letting go are equally powerful acts of love.”_

And so Catra will stay behind this time. She will trust Adora to come back, to stay. To choose her, despite the thousands of admirers constantly vying to pull her from Catra’s arms. 

And if she doesn’t, Catra will be happy for her. Catra wants Adora, yes. But she wants Adora to be happy most of all.

But...she’ll still hope that Adora continues to choose her. She thinks that’s fair—it’s fair to want to be loved in turn. Love has to be a little bit selfish, if it’s going to last. 

Breath huffs from Adora’s lips. “Okay, fine. I _want_ you to come with me.”

“Well,” Catra begins extricating herself from Adora’s arms, stepping backward without breaking eye contact in the slightest. “We can’t always get what we want, now, can we?”

But Adora isn’t ready to let go. Not yet. She clings to Catra’s hand—her fingers a bridge in the growing space between them. “What are you gonna do while we’re gone?”

Catra shrugs. “Don’t know. Take some me time. Maybe go for a hike with Melog, or find something to read. You on the other hand—” Catra wrinkles her nose in mock disgust. “Well, enjoy meetings and negotiations. I’m sure those will be _very_ fun.”

“Adora!” Glimmer yells, stomping a foot. “We’re going to be late!”

Adora glances over her shoulder and sighs. “I swear, there are some days I wish I could just give She-Ra to someone else.”

Catra leans in for another kiss. A brush of lips, short and gentle. “Don’t be stupid. No one’s better for the job.”

“I’ll miss you.”

Adora’s looking at her in a particular way, now. The way that seems reserved for Catra alone. Mouth relaxed into a contented smile, eyes settled into clear pools of affection. 

Catra gives her a playful shove in Glimmer’s direction. “It’s a two-day trip, Adora.”

“So you’re _not_ gonna miss me?” 

Catra rolls her eyes. “For god’s sake—yes, of course I’ll miss you. You are really unbearable sometimes, you know that?”

Adora grins at her. “You know you love me.”

And Catra can’t disagree. Not without lying to herself. 

* * *

##  vein

Catra swore that she wouldn’t look back. 

But then again...she’d never been very good at lying to herself. 

It should’ve been easy. To let the blur of the trees numb her mind into thoughtlessness, into apathy. To let distance carry her far from the violence of her own heartbeat—the vicious tremors of that fractured thing in her chest. 

Catra was made of steel cables, she reminded herself. She could survive this. She could survive anything. 

But she supposed that even steel cables had to affix themselves to something. And she could feel that something—that someone—tugging at her. At her feelings, at her thoughts. 

And so she looked back. Looked back, and cried. 

Though Horde Prime had cables of his own. Veins, really. Bright green and branching. They stretched across the whole world, constrictive as some great snake, painting the ground with an unnatural glowing circuitry. 

Adora wanted to save the world. Catra wanted Adora. But neither of them would get what they wanted, if Horde Prime seized the Heart and split the universe in two. 

And so Catra didn’t just look back. She turned back. She went back, back to the rebel camp, back to Adora, back to—

Nothing. No one. The camp was empty when she returned, panting and calling Adora’s name. Everyone was already gone—Entrapta, Bow, Glimmer, Adora…

Everyone except Shadow Weaver. 

Shadow Weaver, perched upon boxes with a wineglass in her hand. Typical that Catra would find her here, drinking away the end of the world. Letting the rebels fight their doomed battles while she merely relaxed, listless and addled by alcohol. 

Shadow Weaver told Catra what she’d already feared to be true. That Adora had already set off for the Heart. That Adora was blind to what was happening—the start of Horde Prime’s greatest assault—as she stumbled to the planet’s magical core. 

She grabbed Shadow Weaver by the collar. Screamed in her face. Insisting—demanding—that she lead Catra to Adora, wherever she ran off to. 

But Shadow Weaver was uncooperative. And Catra was forced to half-drag her into the forest, fury simmering beneath her skin all the while. 

It wasn’t long after that Horde Prime projected himself onto the sky. Declaring that the world was over—that the fight had been lost, that Entrapta had been captured, and that She-Ra was gone. 

“All that is left for your world,” he said, voice booming across the sky, “is a terrible and eternal night.” 

The world was ending. This world—and every world beyond or within it. The whole universe was teetering on the edge of nonexistence, and as soon as Prime had full control of the Heart, it would be over for good. 

And then Catra was yelling, _screaming_ in Shadow Weaver’s face again. Urging her to bring them both to Adora, before it was too late for her—for Catra, for everyone. 

Shadow Weaver shook her head, feigning resignation. Claiming that Adora was too far, too out of reach. Separated by dwindling time and insurmountable space. 

But Shadow Weaver was, and always would be, a liar. No matter how weak she pretended to be—no matter how she sidelined herself—Shadow Weaver never relinquished power, not entirely. Somehow, someway, she always had one last trick up those dangling crimson sleeves.

There was one spell, at least, that Catra remembered. The one Shadow Weaver always reserved for situations where her own life was threatened. The one that had permitted Shadow Weaver’s escape so long ago, when Hordak had ordered Shadow Weaver’s exile to Beast Island. 

At least Shadow Weaver wasn’t foolish enough to deny it now. She seemed almost defeated as her fingers sunk deep into her pockets, plucking out a single, glinting bottle that was no larger than Shadow Weaver’s pinky finger. 

She outstretched a hand to Catra. The implication was clear: Catra must grab on if they were to make this journey together. 

Catra didn’t want to touch Shadow Weaver. Didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to be touched by her—didn’t want to be near her at all, if it could be avoided. There was little that could fill her with such profound discomfort as that prospect, the prospect of Shadow Weaver’s hand in hers. 

But as much as Catra wished otherwise, there was nothing about this situation that could be considered  _avoidable_ or _comfortable._ Shadow Weaver, least of all.

So Catra took Shadow Weaver’s hand. Her fingers were cold, and stiff, and they held each other in an entirely detached way—the way two strangers might after a marginally satisfactory business transaction. 

And then Shadow Weaver smashed the bottle upon the ground.

Catra struggled to swallow a scream as shadows rose like the tide all around them. Twirling from some terrible space beneath the ground, lifting from the grass like smoke from an imaginary fire. They encircled her, these shadows. Encircled her and Shadow Weaver, enveloping them in darkness, blotting out the stars, the sky, the nearby trees. They crowded close to her, compressing her between shadow and more shadows still, spilling across Catra’s skin and pouring into her lungs—

And then they were somewhere else. Somewhere dark, yes, but somewhere different. A cave that was equal parts wide and long, the walls lined with green. 

Glimmer and Bow stood before her, frozen—watching Catra and Shadow Weaver’s arrival in astonishment. Catra glanced at them, then allowed her eyes to search the surrounding room. Glimmer and Bow were here—visible to the naked eye—but Adora was not. Adora was nowhere to be found between them, beside them. Nowhere within this room. 

Catra lurched toward Glimmer, ignoring the nausea tumbling through her stomach. She grabbed at Glimmer’s shoulders, asking the question that had plagued her since Prime first started etching the world with those green lines—

“Where’s Adora?” Catra demanded. 

And if Horde Prime’s announcement hadn’t convinced Catra that the world was ending, the twin streams of Glimmer’s tears certainly did. 

“She _left_ us,” Glimmer cried. “She’s headed to the Heart on her own.”

And again Catra learned just how foolish she’d been—foolish for hoping for anything beyond what she’d learned to expect from Adora, time and time again. 

Adora always had to do everything by herself. Every journey, every sacrifice had to be hers, and hers alone. No one could help her, no one could carry her burden with her. Not Glimmer, not Bow, and certainly not Catra. 

Adora had probably thought she was being noble, by heading off on her own. But she’d only made herself an easy target for Horde Prime. There was no one there to watch her back, to keep her on balance, and Horde Prime likely knew her weaknesses as well as Catra did. How could he not, when he’d spent so much time in Catra’s head?

Catra quickly and frantically explained everything Glimmer and Bow had missed—the nature of Horde Prime’s machine, and the doomed battle between the princesses above. It was instant and obvious—how badly they wanted to ascend to the surface and rejoin the fight. They didn’t want to wander these corridors aimlessly, hoping to find Adora when she didn’t want to be found. 

But they also didn’t want to leave Adora behind. They were good friends. The kind of friends that Catra wished she’d had all her life. 

“I’ll stay. I’ll find her,” Catra said. 

And really, it made too much sense. Staying was the one thing Catra had always been good at. She’d always been the one to stay—to hold on—even when it broke her into pieces. The proof was right here, after all—standing where Catra stood, having returned mere hours after trying to run away. 

She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay away. Not now, not ever. 

Catra would always stay with Adora in some capacity. Tied by steel cables. Drawn to each other by a promise. A promise that they both wanted to keep, but slipped from their grasps at every critical moment. 

Except this time, this moment. In this moment, unlike all the rest, Catra would keep the promise. 

Catra’s hands were shaking. Shaking like they knew something she didn’t—that this choice to find Adora would likely be the last one she’d ever make. 

The last choice, but also the most important one. Catra wanted to be good, didn’t she? She wanted to be better. And this was the best she could do, given the circumstances. For Adora. For herself. For everyone. 

Glimmer and Bow were hesitant to trust Catra with this. To trust Catra with Adora. She could see it in the glance they exchanged—Glimmer and Bow. Their eyes connected by a thread of concern and trepidation. 

“I can’t lose her again, okay?” Catra told them. Indignant. Desperate. 

And really, that was all that remained. Catra wasn’t sure that she could save Adora. Wasn’t even sure if she could even save herself. But she could, at the very least, ensure that if the Heart or Horde Prime took Adora, it took Catra too. 

Maybe Adora would do whatever it took to save the world. But Catra would do whatever it took to make sure Adora had that chance.

“I promised her a long time ago that I’d look out for her,” Catra said. “It’s time I made good on that.”

Catra wasn’t expecting Glimmer to throw her arms around her. To smile, and clutch her tightly, and whisper words in Catra’s ear:

“Take care of her, Horde Scum.”

It was an old nickname. One from a rather unfortunate hostage situation a long time ago, during which Glimmer had sought to exchange Catra for Entrapta’s unwanted freedom.

Back when she’d first uttered it, Glimmer meant it. She'd really, truly believed that Catra was evil. Irredeemable. Worse than dirt, worse than a monster. 

But now she said as an endearment. An inside joke between friends. 

And perhaps it was too easy to throw her arm around Glimmer’s back. To smile and say, “That’s the plan, Sparkles. And good luck.”

And of course Bow was all too quick to throw his arms around the both of them. He was always too affectionate, that one. 

“The four of us don’t need luck,” Bow said. “We’re the Best Friend Squad.”

And for a moment, Catra let herself be swept into this embrace. An embrace between friends. Friends that she cared about, and maybe—just maybe—cared about her in turn. 

They were both heading off into terrible danger. Glimmer and Bow, in particular, would be emerging to any army of clones and chipped princesses. They’d need stealth. They’d need it more than Catra did, anyway. Catra wasn’t trying to hide from anyone down here. Not anymore.

So she elected to send Melog off with them. She scratched behind Melog’s ears, transmitting affection and goodbye. Goodbye, because this could very well be the last time she’ll ever see them—or anyone—ever again. 

And then, in a flash of smiles and glitter and pink light, the three of them—Glimmer, Bow, and Melog—were gone. 

And then it was simply Catra and Shadow Weaver. 

And Adora, too. Somewhere. If Catra searched for long enough. 

Though in the end, there wasn’t much searching involved. Not when the screaming started. 

The cry of terrible pain, somewhere down the corridor. And the piercing, rattling shriek of a creature that Catra couldn’t identify.

Catra ran down the hallways with only the vaguest awareness of Shadow Weaver following her. Ran and ran, listening for the ever-increasing volume of Adora’s cries, and that creature’s shrieking. A shrieking that only grew deafeningly louder as Catra grew closer. She leveraged every sense she had—sight, smell, hearing—to carve a path through this maze, eventually finding a section that hadn’t yet turned green. One that still glowed in that semi-familiar purple-blue. The kind she’d seen in that First Ones temple so long ago, the one she had snuck into when Adora wasn't looking.

And that was when Catra saw it, beyond the opening to a wide, crystalline cavern. A hulking, multi-legged beast with tentacles for tongues and a thousand green-glowing eyes. It towered over everything—stories tall, armored from head to toe. 

It had cornered something at the far end of the room. Even from here, Catra could hear the labored breathing. Could smell sweat and something oddly familiar—a corrosive chemical sort of scent. 

And of course, Catra saw that blue glow, peeking out from between the monster’s legs. The shine of the Failsafe. 

Adora. 

Catra lunged forward without a thought. Jumping as high as her legs would carry her, upwards toward the ceiling, toward the monster, her claws outstretched—

It hurt, when she collided with it. The monster wasn’t flesh and organic exoskeleton, like she’d originally assumed. The eye she slashed broke into thousand shards of jagged glass that rained upon the floor—becoming yet another obstacle she would have to avoid, unless she wanted to stab one of those shards into her feet. 

The creature roared and reared, and Catra allowed herself to be thrown backward. Flying clear over the collection of glass, the creature’s lashing tongues and the scrambling legs beneath them. 

And then she began to fall. Adora was in her periphery as the ground loomed larger beneath Catra. Even now, Catra could hear Adora’s heavy breathing. Could see her sprawled on the floor, her legs limp as broken threads, a hand clutching at her side. 

Balance, luckily, was something that Catra still excelled at, and she managed to stick the landing on both feet. 

The creature, on the other hand, was less lucky. Its rearing brough it staggering into the wall, smashing fissures into half of the cavern. 

She turned briefly to Adora, and it was entirely involuntary—the smile the sight of Adora brought to Catra’s face. She’d been half-certain that Adora would already be dead when she arrived. But this Adora was still alive, still conscious and breathing, staring at Catra in bewilderment—

“Hey, Adora.”

Though looking at that horrific, oozing green gash near her hip, Catra couldn’t be sure how long Adora’s breathing and consciousness would last. Her skin was sweated-soaked, her eyes dim and hazy as she sat upon the floor. And Catra worried that even if she wasn’t too late, she was still just late enough—late enough that Prime’s killing blow had already been struck. 

But there was still She-Ra to consider. If Adora turned into She-Ra, she could heal herself. 

But why wasn’t she She-Ra right now? Why hadn’t she raised her sword and fought off this monster? 

“Catra?” Adora exclaimed. “You can’t be here. It’s too dangerous—”

Adora tried to stand, but her legs and her breath immediately collapsed beneath her. Catra almost turned her back to the monster to reach her—to grab her before she dropped to the ground—but Shadow Weaver beat Catra there, clutching hands around Adora’s shoulders and hauling her upright. 

And that was the only time that Catra allowed herself to feel grateful for Shadow Weaver. If Catra had turned around, if Catra had allowed herself to approach Adora, the monster would have skewered a leg directly through Catra’s body. Instead, Catra ducked and rolled just in time, managing to avoid the skittering limb as it smashed into the ground, erupting a thick fog of dust into the air.

Catra was on her knees, but not for long. The monster had recovered from Catra’s surprise attack, and now seemed more vicious than ever. 

But Adora was too injured to fight. And Shadow Weaver had been left too exhausted by that magic that had brought them here. 

So that left Catra. Catra, alone, against this monster tall as a tower. 

Catra had claimed she was made of steel. But she wasn’t, no matter how she wished it now, facing a creature that could shatter her bones with a single swipe of its legs. 

“Get Adora to the Heart,” Catra told Shadow Weaver, sending the words over her own shoulder. “I’ll take care of this thing.” 

“Catra, no—”

Adora was delirious and oblivious and self-destructive to a fault, but she wasn’t actually stupid. She knew that Catra had exactly zero chance of surviving this thing. Catra wasn’t She-Ra. She had no sword, no magic. Her only weapons were her claws, her wits, and her determination. 

But she was determined to save Adora. And Adora was determined to save the world. And this was the only way to ensure that someone, somewhere got a happy ending. Even if it wasn’t them—even if there just couldn’t be a world where Catra and Adora were happy. 

But there would be an ending here, today. And maybe it wouldn’t be happy. But it would be good, at least. Noble. Selfless. Twin acts driven by love. 

“I’ll catch up, okay?” Catra lied, and the words sounded fragile to and false to even her own ears. “Get to the Heart.”

And then Shadow Weaver was guiding Adora away, back toward the corridor. And Catra was sprinting, tearing down the ground that led directly to the monster, a tiny body framed against the most massive one she’d ever seen. 

Adora screamed her name as she ran, but Catra could hear its volume diminishing with distance. That was good. That was what Catra wanted. Shadow Weaver would get her there—to the Heart. And Catra just needed to hold this thing off long enough to give them a chance. 

It wasn’t easy. It was nowhere close to easy. It stretched and pulled every fiber of Catra’s muscles as she leaped over and over again, catapulting herself into the creature’s eyes—the only vulnerable point she could identify on that enormous stretch of armored body. 

Catra’s breath heaved from her body in each landing. But no matter how many times she sent that monster tumbling to the floor, it just rose again. Tall as the cavern. Pulverizing crystal and rock beneath its weight. 

But then something worse descended on the cavern. Those green outlines, extending from some distant corridor. Tracing the ground and the ceiling and the walls, stretching to the cave that Adora and Shadow had just retreated beyond—

Horde Prime. He was almost here. Almost at the Heart. 

Catra measured the threats that stood before her. Ultimately, Horde Prime was worse. Especially if he got the Heart. This monster was just a distraction, a way to waste their time while he tightened his grip on Etheria—

The monster was still recovering from Catra’s most recent attack. If there was a chance to leave, this was it. The only opportunity she’d have to reach Adora before it was too late, before Horde Prime got to her. And if the monster pursued her there…

Well, Catra would cross that bridge when she got to it. 

And so Catra darted into that cave, the one that still just barely glowed purple-blue instead of green. But even as she ran, the purple grew fainter, the green ever-brighter, and soon enough there’d be no colors at all beneath Catra’s feet except greens and whites and blacks—

But then he was there. Right in front of her. Towering over her. 

Horde Prime. 

But he couldn’t be here, not really. He was elsewhere, on his ship, far away.

Or was he? What if he’d teleported himself here, just to laugh in Catra’s face as the world she loved broke into dust? Catra wouldn’t put it past him. He loved nothing more than punishing those who’d once disobeyed him. 

“Oh little sister,” he chided. “What a shame. I had such high hopes for you.” 

And then, pain. Sharp as a knife and sharper still, piercing up Catra’s leg with a tingling, almost electrical fire. Catra’s whole body wailed at the way it bit at her, her leg buckling out from beneath her—boneless at that stabbing, all-encompassing pain. 

She was collapsed on the floor when she realized what had caused it. One of the creature’s tongues had wrapped itself around her ankle and was pulling, _pulling_ , cutting deeply into her skin and filling her veins with poison. 

Catra plunged her nails deep into the crystalline floor. Anchoring herself with the sheer strength of her own fingers and arms. Even in agony, she knew it wouldn’t be enough to hold her for long. The creature was tugging and tugging, yanking her inexorably toward its maw, and she couldn’t defend herself, couldn’t get to Adora in time. Not now, not like this—

Her claws scratched dark gouges into the floor as the creature towed her backwards, feet first. It was a terrible noise—the squeal of her nails against the smooth ground. But it was a comfort, at least, as the screech partially smothered Horde Prime’s voice as he continued to taunt her. 

“So brave,” he said. “Risking yourself for Adora. But it will make no difference. The Heart is almost mine. And when it is, Adora will die.” 

And then she wasn’t just being tugged, but lifted. Lifted directly upwards, nails pulled vertically from the floor so that her body was suspended in the air. Suspended, yes, but not free. The creature still had her by the ankle, still thrashed her from side-to-side within its hold—

And then Catra was dangling. Dangling upside down above the monster’s mouth, its many tongues, its endless rows of teeth. 

Tears streamed upside down from Catra’s eyes. Dripping from her eyebrows, her forehead. Even falling back into her own eyes and blurring her vision.

She didn’t want to die like this. She didn’t want to die, period. She’d been willing to, yes—but that wasn’t the same as wanting to. She didn’t want to die here, in this dark tunnel where she couldn’t see the sky or the sun or the horizon line in the distance—

“So tell me, little sister. Was it worth  it ?”

* * *

##  stay (ii)

It takes Catra years to convince Adora to sleep in on the weekends. 

For most of their lives, Adora remained an incurable early riser. Always waking at daybreak to exercise or train. Sometimes even waking _extra_ early to study the weaknesses of their adversaries—whoever their adversaries happened to be at the time. 

And when the number of adversaries started to dwindle, Adora began occupying the dawn with other critical tasks: preparing meeting agendas, practicing speeches, looking over schematics, and so on. There are countless still-dark mornings where Catra’s eyes squint open to discover Adora hunched over supply sheets or infrastructure renovation proposals—reading by the light of a too-bright lamp until the sun fully rises. 

There’s never seemed to be enough hours in the day for Adora. So she always tries to steal a few of them back—particularly the ones that should be reserved for sleep. 

It makes sense for a while, Catra supposes. There’s a lengthy period where Adora is endlessly busy. Etheria requires numerous repairs after Horde Prime's defeat—some of which can only be achieved with She-Ra’s help. And of course the universe needs its magic restored after centuries of a magic-less existence. 

And so, for years, Adora fully devotes herself—and those early morning hours—to those tasks. 

But over time, even those responsibilities begin to diminish. Systems emerge that manage themselves without Adora—or She-Ra’s—direct supervision. And so the world and the universe begin to settle into something peaceful. Something that knows what it’s doing, and where it’s going. 

There eventually comes a day when the mighty She-Ra has nothing left to do—no more battles to fight, no more destruction to repair, no more broken people to heal. 

Catra can tell that nothing frightens Adora more than this. This idea that she isn’t needed, isn’t useful. She picks up hobbies by the dozens. She teaches herself about a thousand alien languages so that she’s the first one called when the planet needs a translator. She borrows an endless supply of books from Bow’s dads, desperate to make herself an expert in every topic imaginable. She tries knitting, and cooking, and carpentry, and even weird skills like crystallography and cartography that Catra can’t understand let alone pronounce—

“Adora,” Catra murmurs one morning as she sweeps out a searching hand. Adora’s side of the mattress is cold to the touch. 

Rather than sleeping beside Catra, Adora is seated at her desk, closely examining a bright yellow crystal beneath an enormous magnifying glass. It probably wasn’t intentional—the way that magnifying glass reflected the lamplight directly into Catra’s eyes. But it woke Catra all the same. 

Adora doesn’t hear Catra call her name. She’s too focused on the crystal in front of her. 

With a groan, Catra sits up and rubs her eyes. The moonlight-drenched windows evidence the time well enough, but a glance at the clock on the wall confirms the terrible truth. 

5AM. Even earlier than usual. 

Catra rolls out of bed and shuffles to the spot beside Adora’s desk. Gently, carefully, Catra lowers a hand onto Adora’s shoulder—knowing that if she acts too quickly, Adora could jump and end up shattering one of her prized crystals all over the floor. 

“Adora,” Catra murmurs again, slightly louder this time. And Adora finally looks up and lowers the magnifying glass, stunned to see Catra awake and upright. 

“Oh, hey!” Adora greets brightly, placing a hand over Catra’s. “What’s wrong? You don’t usually get up until—”

“Five and a half hours from now?” Catra finishes for her, sounding a bit more annoyed than she even intended. 

Adora’s face falls. “Oh. Did I wake you?”

“Just a bit,” Catra says, then sighs. “What’s so important about this crystal that you have to analyze it at 5AM?”

“It has a very unique structure—”

“It will still have a unique structure in five hours,” Catra reminds her pointedly. “So why is this so time sensitive that you have to study it before dawn?”

“If I don’t write up my notes on this crystal now, then I won’t have time to work on the table for Madame Razz later. And I really need to finish knitting those scarves—”

“Adora.” Catra shoots Adora a look of exasperation that she hopes seems more affectionate than truly accusatory. “You don’t need to finish any of those things today.”

“But I promised—”

“Whoever you promised will understand. The world won’t end if it takes you longer than a day to do something, you know?”

And then Adora is the one sighing—turning, defeated, from her piles of crystals and her assortment of magnifying glasses. “I just want to be helpful, Catra. It’s like…”

Catra waits patiently for her to find the words, but it’s clear that she thought better of them—and has instead elected to let them trail into silence. 

“It’s like what?” Catra asks, unwilling to let whatever Adora wanted to say go unspoken.

“It’s like no one needs me anymore,” Adora whispers. “No one needs She-Ra.”

“It’s a good thing,” Catra tells her. “Not to be needed. At least, it’s good not to be needed the way She-Ra is needed.”

“I know,” Adora says. “But I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do now—now that I have nothing _to_ do.”

“You can do whatever you want,” says Catra, as if it’s obvious. And then, more suggestively: “Or _whoever_ you want. Namely, me.”

Adora smiles a bit at that. “At 5AM?”

“Well, not at 5AM,” Catra concedes. “But I’m just saying...you don’t need to be useful to matter. And you especially don’t need to be useful to matter to me. I would perfectly happy if the two of us just never left the bed again—”

“We can’t just never leave bed, Catra. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t do something with my time—”

“Alright, fine,” says Catra. “Compromise.”

Adora raises an eyebrow. “Compromise? Was this even an argument?”

But Catra just keeps barreling forward irregardless. “We sleep in on the weekends. The rest of the week, you can get up at the asscrack of dawn, the way you always do. But on the weekends…you don’t get up until I do. Deal?”

Adora pouts. “But I’m most productive on the weekends—”

“Adora.”

Adora huffed out a sigh, then grumbles: “Fine. We’ll sleep in on weekends.”

And just like that, the tradition falls into place. 

Adora struggles at first. Some weekend mornings, Catra wakes to find Adora sneaking books under the covers, reading by the beam of the old flashlight that Adora rescued from the Fright Zone. Other mornings, she finds Adora staring blankly at the ceiling, clearly unable to keep wakefulness at bay. 

Most common of all are the mornings that Catra feels Adora tossing and turning, fruitlessly searching for a position that might allow her to fall back to sleep. 

When Adora seems particularly restless, Catra reaches out and wraps her arms around Adora’s stomach, holding her tightly enough that she can’t keep rolling from side-to-side. 

“You need to relax,” Catra then mutters into the crown of Adora’s head. 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Adora mutters back, scrunching her eyes tightly shut—as if that might force them to suddenly drop off into sleep.

To a degree, it’s an issue of a lifelong sleep schedule. Adora has spent so many years waking up at dawn, she’s programmed her brain to start firing at that time. 

“If you start waking up,” Catra tells her, “don’t let yourself get swept away by your constantly massive to-do list. Just… think about how comfortable the bed is. And how warm and nice it is to be lying there, with me.”

Adora snorts. “Ah yes. So warm and nice. That was exactly what I was thinking when you practically stabbed me with your overgrown toenails the other night.”

“They’re claws, first of all—not overgrown toenails,” Catra corrects her. “And maybe you’d avoid my toenails if you stopped _thrashing around_ all night long.”

But like any other of Adora’s ridiculous acquired skills, sleeping late is something that she learns with time. She studies tactics—strategies to maximize her sleep on the weekends. Some of them work better than others. From Perfuma, she learns to meditate when sleep seems elusive. From Glimmer and Bow, she finally receives some functional blackout curtains—ones that effectively limit the amount of light spilling into the room during the early morning hours. 

And finally, from Catra, she learns to completely and utterly tire herself out on Friday and Saturday nights. Something that Catra is all too eager to help with—whether that means late-night trips, or drinks with their friends, or intense sparring sessions...or _other_ activities. 

Eventually, they discover that if Adora becomes exhausted enough, and stops treating her everyday to-do list as something life-or-death, she’s actually fully capable of being lazy. Perhaps even lazier than Catra is on weekend mornings—and Catra is rather notorious for being lazy. 

One morning in particular, Catra wakes to a sharp rapping at their door. 

The first thing Catra notices is the body curled around hers: the blonde hair tickling her face, the loose tangle of Adora’s limbs, the warm breath ghosting across the nape of her neck. 

The next thing Catra notices is the clock on the wall. It ticks the same as always—the only sound in a near-silent room—but she realizes that it looks different, somehow. The hands resting in places that she doesn’t recognize, or isn’t accustomed to. 

It’s noon, she realizes with some surprise. Morning has since past, and they’ve officially started lazing their way through the afternoon. 

And most miraculously—judging by the continued evenness of Adora’s breathing—Adora is still asleep. 

Another knock bangs across the door, causing Catra to jump and Adora to moan in annoyance at the disturbance. 

“Would you two _please_ wake up already?” comes Bow’s voice, from the other side. “Glimmer made breakfast. Like...a lot of breakfast. And if no one eats it, she’s gonna get real upset—”

At the mention of breakfast, Catra’s stomach begins to growl. Some of Glimmer’s cooking experiments over the years have turned out better than others. Her attempts at breakfast? Usually pretty great. 

Plus, it is noon, after all. Catra loves her sleep, but she’s more than gotten her fill. The prospect of food is enticing enough to make her want to leave the bed, however warm and comfortable it is. 

Catra begins to shift, carefully disentangling herself from Adora’s limbs. She lightly puffs Adora’s hair out of her face—

But Adora’s grip on her only tightens. Her movements are almost zombie-like as she pulls Catra even closer—constricting her arms across Catra’s torso and wrapping her obnoxiously muscular legs around Catra’s shins. 

“Adora,” Catra says with a pointed nudge. “Breakfast.”

Adora only grunts in disagreement.

“Adora,” Catra says again, impatient. “Don’t you want to eat?”

She feels Adora shake her head. 

“Glimmer’s gonna kill us if we don’t get up.”

“Glimmer can’t kill us,” Adora mumbles drowsily. “Not if we’re asleep.”

Catra laughs. “You’re right. I guess I forgot that death and sleep were mutually exclusive. My mistake.”

Adora hums like she accepts Catra’s apology, then settles back into a silent slumber. 

Though not for long. A few minutes later, Bow is once again knocking on the door, now growing increasingly frantic. “Guys! Seriously!”

“Alright, alright! We’re coming,” Catra calls, and then renews her efforts to squirm her way out of Adora’s grip. 

Adora is having none of this, though. She senses the movement—senses Catra’s intention to leave—and immediately takes action. 

“ _Noooo_ ,” she whines, then rolls over—rolling Catra with her—until Catra is buried beneath the full weight of Adora’s body and completely unable to move. 

Catra is quickly realizing that she might have created a monster with this whole ‘sleep-in-on-the-weekends’ thing. 

“Adora–” Catra shrieks, but Adora holds up a finger and shushes her. 

“Just stay,” Adora insists, the words muddled and slurred. “Stay...and sleep.” 

And then she drops her head onto Catra’s chest and nods off before Catra’s very eyes. 

* * *

##  stay (i)

“ _Whatever happens, I am staying with you_!” 

Catra was prepared to watch Adora die, but not like this. 

They had been side-by-side, standing before the Heart—preparing to deploy the Failsafe without She-Ra’s protection—when Adora collapsed onto the floor, her whole body buckling as though she’d been suspended by strings that had suddenly been cut. 

She cried out in pain as she fell, clutching at the Failsafe like it was a knife lodged in her chest. 

“Adora?” Catra exclaimed, falling to her knees beside her, gently trying to roll Adora face-up.

Adora was gasping,  _screaming_ in pain, her eyes scrunched tightly shut. On the front of Adora’s shirt, the Failsafe was still visible, but there was something wrong with it. It was flickering. Glitching. Blinking between blue and green and no light at all. 

Adora’s veins were tinged with green—with poison. With Horde Prime’s virus. It almost had her, just as it almost had the Heart. 

“—no, no, no!” 

Catra babbled refusals as she pulled Adora more closely into her arms. She searched for something to do—some way to help—but there was nothing. Catra knew nothing about this, about magic or saving the world. But the Failsafe had to work, it _had_ to, or else all of this was for nothing and Horde Prime would win—

Catra froze as the ground began to shake—the whole room crackling with ozone instead of magic.

There was some sort of swell of energy—the kind that made the hairs on Catra’s arms rise. And suddenly Catra knew that ‘almost’ had been too optimistic of a term to use. Horde Prime didn’t ‘almost’ have the Heart. He had it. Period. 

Catra threw herself over Adora’s body, acting as a shield as a bolt of green light lashed down from somewhere above, a thousand times as wide as a lightning strike and about a million times as powerful. It plunged directly into the Heart, suffusing the entire chamber in an eerie green light. The kind that faintly singed Catra’s skin in its intensity. 

There was a grating, metallic sound from the reactor above them. It seemed that the Heart was resisting Horde Prime’s control to some degree, but Catra knew wouldn't last for long. 

And upon glancing downward, Catra realized that Adora wouldn’t last long either. 

Adora’s expression was no longer tense with pain, but slack with near-unconsciousness—lips parted and eyelids drooping. She was limp and listless in Catra’s arms, her skin slick with sweat and too-hot with fever.

“Adora,” Catra called, breathless panic multiplying within her. She could feel it in her every molecule—the rising terror and hysteria as she looked at Adora. Adora, who was quickly becoming lifeless within Catra’s grasp, her breaths escaping as shallow, feeble wisps of air. 

“Adora, stay awake!” 

Catra sounded more commanding than she felt. Adora’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of Catra’s voice, but the eyes beneath them were glassy and unfocused. 

There was something in that face. That face Catra had known her own life—the one that she’d practically memorized in its every feature, expression, and mannerism. 

For the first time in her life, Adora looked resigned. Resigned to this—to dying here, at the Heart. The world unsaved. The universe doomed. She wasn’t going to make it—wasn’t strong enough to fend off Horde Prime’s virus all by herself. She was just one person. One girl. 

“I’m sorry,” Adora whispered. And that was all. That was all she could think to say as delirium bore down on her. 

Tears welled in Catra’s eyes. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand that Adora had to take responsibility for all of this—any of this. This fault wasn’t hers—this was Horde Prime’s—and Adora deserved to _live_ even if he didn’t want her to. 

The future was supposed to mean something more to them than this—than wars and alien conquerors and an infinite stream of end-of-the-world scenarios. There was supposed to be something to look forward to, something to hope for—something, somewhere out there for them, on the horizon, besides this crushing darkness and poisonous green light. 

Catra cupped a hand to Adora’s cheek, and Adora held it in hers. There was enough strength in her left to do that. That, and nothing else. 

Adora began to drift into unconsciousness. But Catra wouldn’t—couldn’t—let her fall away. Not now, not ever. She cried Adora’s name, clutched her as close as two bodies would allow. 

She pressed her ear to Adora’s chest and searched for that sound she knew so well: Adora’s heartbeat. The heartbeat that was once the strongest, loudest, swiftest thing that Catra had ever heard—a heart that beat for everyone and everything it could. 

But now it was faint, and feeble. Slowly sputtering into silence. Scarcely pulsating beneath Adora’s ribs. 

She was still breathing, but just barely. And Catra knew that she couldn’t let it end like this. She couldn’t let the world end, she couldn’t let Adora die. Catra had done a lot of terrible things, but this would be the worst of them all—sitting by and letting Adora fade away in her arms, crumbling to dust along with the rest of the universe. 

“Adora, please,” she murmured, arms trembling as she continued clutching at Adora’s limp body. “You have to wake up.” 

Adora didn’t stir. 

Catra shifted Adora in her arms, lowering her so that she had a clear view of Adora’s face. She imagined she was talking to her while awake—while still healthy. Both eyes open and heartbeat steady. That was better, at least, than what lay before Catra now—someone who might already be too far out of reach. 

“You have never given up on anything in your life. Not even on me,” Catra whispered, voice threatening to fall apart—vaporized in the magic of Heart, just like Adora had hoped to be, but no longer could. “So don’t you _dare_ start now.”

The Heart above her was snapping, and sputtering—nearly loud enough to drown out Catra’s voice. But she couldn’t muster any greater volume than this. This quiet whisper, this desperate plea to someone who might already be long gone, too far away. The one person Catra always wanted to stay close, despite morals or logic or right or wrong—no matter how the world grew or shook or crumbled. They were supposed to stay together, to look out for each other, and nothing in universe could justify Catra lasting for even an instant longer than Adora did—

But then Catra heard it. The smallest murmur of a reply, ghosting from Adora’s lips. 

“It’s too late,” Adora whispered. “I’ve failed.” 

“No,” Catra sobbed, clutching Adora ever-tighter. “No. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Catra could hardly see beyond her own tears. The whole room was a haze of green and rainbow light, frightening and psychedelic and soon-to-be deadly, and for the first time it struck Catra that she really had nothing left to lose. Adora deserved to know the truth, even if the truth wasn’t reciprocated. Even if the truth only lasted for a moment before the world ended, and the rest of the universe with it. 

Maybe they would die here. Maybe this was really the end. But Catra couldn’t stand the thought of them both disappeared, destroyed, without Adora at least knowing, _understanding_ the reason behind everything, the reason behind Catra’s best and worst traits and choices—

“Don’t you get it?” Catra demanded to Adora’s still-listless body. “I love you. I always have. So please just this once—”

Catra lowered her head back onto Adora’s chest, willing that heart to beat faster, _stronger_ , strong enough to keep Adora’s lungs working. Keep Adora’s ears working, too, so that she could listen and understand this one thing, the thing that had always mattered to Catra more than any other—

“ _Stay_.” 

The word had barely left Catra’s lips when that strange energy began to surge yet again, setting the whole chamber alight with static.

Another lightning strike burst into the room. A blinding flash of green light that hurtled toward them, powerful enough to incinerate them instantly—

But somehow, it didn’t manage to touch them. 

Catra looked up, stunned to find herself still alive and breathing. More surprising, she soon discovered, was the glowing shield hoisted above her, protecting her from the Heart’s deadly energy.

Catra looked down to find Adora wide awake, sitting upright in Catra’s arms. Her eyes no longer looked glassy and delirious, but bewildered. Alert but disoriented, as though she had suddenly been roused from a terrible dream.

“You love me?” Adora said, stunned—as if she had never considered the concept.

And thinking back now, Catra really couldn’t believe that Adora hadn’t noticed. The purring alone should have given it away, but the evidence was truly endless. The way Catra said Adora’s name, held her hand, shared her smiles. She really couldn’t have been any more transparent—

“You’re such an idiot,” Catra laughed.

Catra didn’t know what she expected, after that. She never thought they’d make it this far. Never thought she’d live to hear a response. And if she did, she knew it’d be too much to hope that Adora felt remotely the same way. 

She knew Adora cared about her, yes, because Adora cared about everyone. But there were different types of caring, different forms of love. And Catra couldn’t really imagine anyone else feeling this way about another person—this way that Catra felt about Adora. 

But this was enough. It was enough to see Adora still alive and holding Catra’s gaze. Looking up at Catra with that strange smile on her face. A strangely serene smile—one that seemed a little out of place considering their still-dire circumstances. 

No, not serene, Catra realized. Adora was happy. Happy in a way that Catra had never seen her before. Happy and relieved and—

“I love you too,” Adora told her. As if it were obvious. As if Catra should have known that from the start. 

Catra stared, processing those words too slowly. They seemed too good to be true, those four little words. Words that Catra hadn’t even allowed herself to hope for. Words that instantly filled that aching hole in the universe, the one that had plagued Catra throughout her entire life. 

Until now. 

Adora loved her. Catra loved Adora, and Adora loved her back. 

And then Catra was smiling too, mirroring Adora’s expression with her own. Truly, Catra had never been so happy to feel so stupid. 

Well. Catra wasn’t one to waste time. She’d waited long enough to do this, to lean down and kiss Adora in the way she’d always wanted to. She’d waited long enough to feel Adora kissing her back, holding her close, radiating magic and happiness and all the things that shouldn’t have been possible here, at the end of the world.

But despite how the world shook and crumbled, it seemed that it wasn’t ready to end. Not yet. Not so long as Catra had Adora, and Adora had Catra. 

* * *

##  princess

“And then after destroying the Heart,” Bow recounts, pantomiming an exaggerated explosion with his hands. “She-Ra emerged from the core of the planet with Catra in her arms, ready to defeat Horde Prime once and for all!”

“She did _not_ carry me out of the Heart,” Catra objects. “In fact, before she turned into She-Ra, I was the one carrying her!” 

But no one is listening to her. Everyone is too enraptured by Bow’s retelling of how She-Ra saved the world (with the help of Adora’s friends, of course, though Bow seems to get a bit more attention in this story than the rest of them). 

Catra doesn’t know why she still bothers correcting Bow. He’s told this same exact story about a million times before—on a thousand different alien planets of people desperate to know how She-Ra did it, how she managed to defeat the tyrant that had reigned over their worlds for so long. And of course, the story is told at least twice at nearly every major function on Etheria. 

It gets more excitement at Princess Prom than it does at the many balls in Bright Moon. There are some fresh faces here—a new generation of princesses and Etherians who haven’t heard or lived the story as many times as Catra and her friends have. 

Adora’s white dress flutters outward as she returns to Catra’s side. There are two glasses of champagne in her hands, one of which she immediately hands off to Catra. 

“What’d I miss?”

“We made out at the Heart,” Catra recalls. “Oh, and now you’re about to beat the shit out of Horde Prime.”

“Oh no,” Adora says, frowning. “I missed us making out? That’s my favorite part.”

Catra nudges her, then glances at the door. “Well, if you need your memory refreshed—”

“We’re not leaving early,” Adora tells her sternly. “Princess Prom is once a decade, Catra. We’re expected to be here for the whole thing.”

“Maybe _you_ are, but I’m not a princess. I’m just here for the food and drink—”

Adora rolls her eyes. “Don’t be stupid—you’re expected to be here too. You do realize that marrying a princess makes you a princess too, right? You even got your own invitation.”

Catra blinks, recalling the scroll that had been neatly deposited beside Adora’s, back when the Princess Prom invitations were all delivered. 

“Wait,” she says. “They don’t send those to all the plus ones—?”

Adora smirks at her. “Nope.”

“So I’m—?”

“Princess Catra,” Adora says smugly. “Princess of Power, through marriage.”

Catra gapes at her. She never considered this. Sure, she’s married to a princess, and lives in a castle, and has a magical creature as a pet but—

Shit. 

“In fact, this was actually my evil plan all along,” Adora continues, still unbearably smug. “To make you fall in love with me so that I could turn you into a princess. The only thing you’re missing at this point is a tiara. Though I could easily have one made for you—” 

“I’m divorcing you,” Catra declares, then downs the entire glass of champagne as a form of protest. 

“Fine,” Adora replies, then takes a sip of her own champagne. “But I get to keep Melog.”

“You do not get to keep _my_ cat.”

“Melog likes me better.”

“They won’t when they find out I’m divorcing you.”

“Right,” Adora says. “And will you be divorcing me before or after I carry your drunk ass home?”

“Me?” Catra laughs, setting her champagne flute on a nearby table. “You’re the lightweight, not me.”

Adora hums as if she doesn’t quite believe Catra, then wraps an arm around her waist. Catra settles into Adora’s side as they listen to the rest of Bow’s story. At the end of it—at the joyous conclusion of the magic being restored to all of Etheria and dismantlement of Horde Prime’s empire—people cheer and applaud.

“It sounds so fun,” Catra says. “When Bow tells it like that, I mean. Like it was just one big adventure. But it really doesn’t cover just how scary it was. You know?”

Because it was. Catra’s life was always scary—has never really stopped being scary, in some ways. But the days in the timespan of the story—life in the Horde, the war, the invasion of Etheria by Horde Prime—those days produced their own brand of terror, a terror unlike any other. 

It was almost a different world, then. One filled with so many daily forms of devastation and endless opportunities to make terrible mistakes. 

But now it’s gone. Replaced by something better—something that easily conflates unimaginable strife for a fun adventure. And now that world remains only in memory. The memory of the people who can’t quite forget, no matter how hard they may try. 

Though Catra has stopped trying to forget by now. Some memories hurt still, but most of them have healed over, covered by tougher, stronger skin than before. Strong, yes—but not in the way she once defined that word: detached and stubborn and unwilling. 

She’s long since learned that there can’t be a  _better_ or a _best_ without a _worst_ to precede them. 

Life is all about this. Falling and getting up. Losing and trying again. Hurting and healing. Accepting an ever-growing list of  _too lates_ and _almosts_ and _not enoughs_ while never truly giving up on the things that really matter. The things that fill the hourglass. The things that Catra can hold in her arms and hoist above her head. 

Now that Bow’s story is finished, the music starts up again. A slow, hopeful tune that Catra doesn’t recognize. She still doesn’t know much about music. Maybe Adora does—maybe it’s another one of her “hobbies.” 

“Wanna dance?” Adora asks, extending a hand. 

“Depends,” Catra says. “Do you promise not to shove me into an ice sculpture?”

“Depends,” Adora rejoins. “Promise not to melt the building down?” 

They both laugh, and then they’re both tugging each other to the dance floor, Catra only semi-purposefully stepping on Adora’s dress and Adora being only  _slightly_ infuriating by saying things like: “After you, _Princess Catra_.” 

Princess Catra. Truly—out of all the things she imagined on the horizon for herself,  _that_ was certainly not one of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have such mixed feelings about this chapter...but yeah. Tell me what y'all think.
> 
> Also TIL that marrying a prince makes you a prince/princess but marrying a princess does not necessarily make you a prince/princess. BUT—in the case of Etheria, I'm gonna pretend that misogyny does not exist and that marrying a princess just fucking makes you a princess. Because Catra being a princess is too funny of a concept to pass up. 
> 
> Alright, that's all folks! I may or may not have a sort of crack-fic-with-too-much-plot on the way (because my two fanfic settings are angsty character studies or crackfic) so stay tuned for that if you're interested! I've got catradora brain rot so I guess this is all i write now.

**Author's Note:**

> [my catradora playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xJ0ALXyFYhEngYsafWiy3?si=xZpMNyhIQxWDAkAC5UbKzQ) (songs are organized by the events in the series).  
> [my tumblr](https://heartofetheria.tumblr.com/)  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/chellethewriter)
> 
> Also—please consider helping a **[BLM-related cause](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#donate).**


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